De Temps En Temps!
by Mysterylover17
Summary: PREVIOUSLY ENTITLED TIMEWARP! New characterizations, new prologue, epilogue and it's actually fleshed out! Sherlock Holmes and his friend are called upon to solve the mystery of the Paris Opera House. Rated PG13 for swearing and some minor adult situation
1. Prologue

**Hey all! Due to the promise of a sequel and not finding a logical way to create one, I've revamped this entire story. New characters, a few new situations and an ending that hopefully you'll all enjoy. Seeing as though FFN doesn't want me to post the entire thing at once, I will post several chapters per day to until the entire thing is completed. As usual, reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated. Please enjoy the new and updated version of Time Warp!**

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**Prologue**

_"Mac, Mac are you awake?" _

_The sound of my best friend's voice throbs painfully in my ears and I very slowly open my eyes, my eyelids squinting against the harsh florescent light. "What?" My voice is raspy and harsh, far removed from my previous gentle tone. _

_"The nurse, she stopped by a few minutes ago. I'm supposed to give you these."_

_I attempt to raise my head to see what my friend is holding but my decimated body refuses the action. I sigh and mentally curse my failing immune system. A memory flickers across my mind, its fingers brushing against my conscious thoughts. It is a memory of me when I was seventeen, young, vibrant and healthy. It was a time when I was happy, a time long before I was raped and contracted AIDS. A time long before my body began to betray me because of an action caused by my heart which longed to return to a man who lived years ago in the past. _

_"Mac?"_

_My friend's voice grabs attention of my constant wavering thoughts. It is more difficult to keep hold of my mind, to keep a tight reign on my thoughts which want to fly out of my head and go in various directions._

_"What?" Longer sentences tire me too quickly to say them. My friend is forced to deal with one or two word answers. _

_"The nurse wanted me to give you these."_

_"What?"_

_She holds a white paper cup close to my face. "Ice chips," she says with a forced smile. She reaches her hand into the cup and removes one of the chips. With gentle hands, she rubs the solid water mass over my parched lips, to moisten them. Almost involuntarily, I part my lips and my tongue hungrily seeks the piece of ice. Deftly, Rebecca inserts it into my dry, thrush covered mouth and removes her fingers before they come into contact with any part of my body. _

_My throat convulses a few times, a few faux swallows before the ice chip makes its way down my esophagus. I cough once and then stop. _

_"Want more?" Beck asks motioning towards the cup with a fake smile plastered on her face. _

_"No."_

_"They're good for you. They'll help you get better quicker," she says with forced cheer. _

_I force myself to glare at her, at good, kind-hearted loving Rebecca Marshall, a girl who had stood by my side for over a decade. I swallow with some effort, forcing enough salvia into my mouth so I can get more than two words out. "We both know," I manage with some effort, "I'm not leaving here."_

_My best friend shakes her head and blinks her eyes, so I don't see the tears that are quickly gathering there. I don't know why she feels as though she has to hide her emotions from me behind a mask of false cheer. I had made a resolution that I am going to die, indeed that I want to die. I made that resolution the moment I woke up on the harsh, saw-dust covered caravan car of Madame Sophia, far removed from **his** arms. _

_"Don't say that," Becky says offering me another ice chip which I refuse. "You know that isn't true. You're going to be fine. It's just a phase Mac. You and I, we'll be back in our loft in no time. That is, if you eat the fuckin' ice chips like you're supposed to."_

_I force my eyes to look down upon my lesion covered and trembling hands. I know there is no way I am ever going to see the inside of our apartment again. I gasp when a spasm of pain rips through me; undoubtedly it is another one of my organs failing._

_"Mac?" Nervously, and I think unconsciously, Rebecca grasps my freezing hand. Her sudden touch is startling to me, since we have not made physical contact since I was diagnosed with the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome a little over six months ago. She was afraid she'd contract the silent killer from me. At first, her fear of me hurt, but like any pain, save the pain of a crushed heart, one grows accustomed to it. "Mac, are you all right?"_

_I nod and force a smile. "Yeah," I wheeze. "Yeah."_

_"You sure? Want me to call a doctor?"_

_"No."_

_"Is there anything I can do for you?"_

_I grin in earnest. "Yuh—yes."_

_"What?"_

_"My…my notebook." My throat muscles are beginning to spasm, making it difficult for me to get many words out. Without me asking, Rebecca thrusts another ice chip into my mouth. _

_"What about your notebook?" _

_"Guh—get it please."_

_She nods and raises from her chair beside my bed. She crosses my confined hospital room and opens the closet where my stuff is stashed. The few possessions Beck brought from our loft, the few material things I will ever touch or see again. _

_"Got it!" She says, holding up the much battered blue spiral bound notebook. Holding it tightly, she crosses back to my bed and once again sits down on the hard plastic chair. "What do you want me to do with it?"_

_"Ruh—read it to me."_

_Rebecca nods and opens up to a random page. "'About a week later, I was released from the hospital into the custody of Rebecca. My mother refused to leave New York, afraid I would try something stupid like kill myself. I had already made that attempt twice and failed on both accounts. She was afraid I would allow the fact I was raped and my subsequent diagnosis of AIDS to get to me. So she and Becky tried their hardest to keep my in high spirits. I don't know why, I'm simply a dead girl walking.'" _

_My best friend looks up at me and frowns. "This is some depressing shit," she said, flipping ahead a few pages. She once again begins to read. "'"Mac, take your AZT.' The saying of the loft! Everyone, it seemed, felt compelled to utter that melodious phrase. If my mother wasn't out food shopping, she too would have joined in the annoying chorus.'" _

_My best friend stops reading and grabs a tissue from my bedside. She pretends to sneeze and surreptitiously dabs her eyes. She doesn't think I realize she is crying. She sniffles a few times and then favors me with a grin. "It's weird not yelling at you to take your AZT," she says, her voice breaking ever so slightly. She gives my decrepit body a once over and then once again wipes at her eyes. _

"_Damn allergies."_

"_Yuh—you can cry you know," I rasp. "I nuh-know what's going to huh-happen to me."_

_She smiles and allows a solitary tear to slide down her cheek. Quickly, she blinks away the others. She doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that her best friend and 'sister' is dying. "It'll be weird not yelling at you to take your AZT. I'll miss that."_

"_Me too." My hands twitch on the thin hospital coverlet. "Me too."_

_A moment passes where neither of us says a word. Then my friend breaks the silence. "Mac, do you forgive me?"_

"_Fuh-for what?"_

_She swallows hard, in vain attempt to keep the sobs out of her voice. "For dragging you to Steve's party that night? For leaving you so I could get laid by Steve, leaving you alone knowing you'd never been to a frat party? For letting Steve hook you up with Kyle? For not leaving the party to look for you as soon as I realized you were missing but rather went back for another round with Steve? For inadvertently getting you raped and causing you to die?" She is crying in earnest, tears of guilt release themselves in sobs of torment. She clutches my hand tightly. "For not comforting you when you needed me? For letting my fear of touching you get in the way of our friendship? For trying to make you forget him?"_

_With a great deal of energy, I force one of my shaking hands to grasp hers feebly. I force myself to swallow several times so I can speak. "I—I don't blame you. Never did. Never will. Not your fault. Love you like a sister," I hate how my body refuses to let me utter full sentences. I do not have the energy. "Don't blame you. Never blamed you. No need to forgive you."_

"_Just say you forgive me Mac. Please?"_

"_Forgive you. I forgive you."_

_She smiles and wipes her eyes. She thrusts another ice chip into my mouth and this time, she wipes my lips with her thumb. "Thank you."_

"_Ruh—read to me," I wheeze. _

"_From your notebook?"_

"_Yuh—yeah."_

"_More of the depressing shit?"_

"_Fruh—from the beginning. Want to hear it. Want to hear about him. Need to hear about him. Love him. Please?"_

_Rebecca nods and opens the cover of my battered notebook, stopping at the first page. Her voice shakes from suppressed sobs as she reads. "' Whoever said "life is like a box of chocolates" neglected to factor in deadly food allergies; trust me, I should know.'" She looks up from the book and stares at me. "That part?"_

"_Yuh-yeah. Tuh-hill the end puh-lease."_

_Rebecca nods and once again reads the sentence. I close my eyes and lean into the softness of my pillow, allowing my mind to delve into the recesses of memory and pluck forth the images of the strangest adventure of my entire life. Images from the adventure that Rebecca is reading to me, images from the adventure that nearly took my life and separated me from the one man I ever allowed myself to love. _


	2. Chapter 1

**Mackenzie's Journal**

**Chapter One: A Bad Day and a Visit to A Psychic **

_Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle…_

"Miss Sterling!"

_En ce miroir! Ah…_

"Mackenzie Sterling!" My teacher's voice cut through the melody of Gounod's 'Jewel Song' which was playing in my mind and caused me to jump.

"Huh? Oh, yes Sister Marguerite?" I flashed the nun my most disarming smile in attempt to cut through her icy demeanor. I was unsuccessful.

"Miss Sterling," her voice took on the no-nonsense tone that teachers are so good at employing. "Were you listening to me?"

"Of course Sister. I love your class," I resisted the urge to gag. I was more of an English and math person. I hated history and still do. With math I could sharpen my logical skills by solving intricate numerical problems. With English, I could read and thus escape from the torments of my everyday life. The strange combination of these two subject areas made me one of the nerdiest and subsequently one of the most unpopular students in Saint Mary's Academy.

"Then Miss Sterling, please tell me the names of the Union generals in the order that they commanded the Army of the Potomac."

_Shit! _"Sister, when you say generals, you mean like Grant?"

"Yes I mean Grant and the other seven."

_Shit, shit, shit!_ "Union generals, hmm let's see. We have McDowell, McClellan, Pope, McClellan, uh"—_goddamnit! Who the hell are the others? Do I try and be funny? Yeah, that gets me outta a lot of sticky situations. _"Doc, Dopey, Sneezy and Grant?"

"Miss Sterling, I am not amused," Sister Marguerite said frigidly.

_No, it figures you wouldn't be._ "Really? Because I found the mental image really quite comical! I mean, imagine the little dwarfs from 'Snow White' dressed in blue uniforms leading an army of animals into battle…" I allowed my sentence to trail off when I saw the look of extreme disgust increasing on my teacher's face.

"Miss Sterling, your humor does not suit your attempt to be scholarly. If, as you say, you were listening to me, you should have no difficulties in answering my question. Or does your witty mind need some help remembering?"

"If I may, I'd like to use one of my lifelines Sister. I'd like to call—"

"Miss Sterling, here is your lifeline. Either you answer my question correctly or the entire class will have to write a ten page paper on the effects of the Civil War on society and hand it into me first thing tomorrow morning."

I smiled weakly and tried to combat fear with humor. "That's more of a direct line to my death Sister."

"The clock is ticking Miss Sterling."

_Oh shit!_ I began to sweat. All eyes in the classroom were glued on me. My popularity, which was already low, would not be improved by this incident.

"Hey Sister, can I claim sanctuary?" I asked with a very feeble smile.

"Either you answer the question now Miss Sterling or I will triple the number of pages of the paper."

"Okay, okay I'm sorry. The Union generals, they are McDowell, McClellan, Pope, McClellan…uh…Burnside…Hooker..." _was Lee a Union General or a Confederate general? Shit! Why was I playing Faust in my mind instead of listening to Sister? Jackson, could that be one? Yeah, Jackson sounds good. _"Jackson and Grant."

Sister Marguerite stared at me for a few moments and then, with a smile of cold triumph, she uttered the one word that every student dreads. "Miss Sterling you answer is **incorrect**."

_Oh shit! Well, there goes my chance at being Miss Popularity!_

"Mackenzie, you suck! Don't you realize that I have a football game tonight? I'm never gonna get the paper done!" Jack-the-jock (as I called him) yelled.

"Now, now Mr. Radcliffe," Sister said sweetly, "we cannot blame Miss Sterling for having more important things to think about then my lecture."

I wanted to die right then and there but the gods had something worse planned for me. My humiliation tripled when Amber-I'm-so-popular Stern said:

"Like, I totally knew that answer! Mackenzie, are you like stupid or something?"

Anger was slowly building up inside me. "Like oh my God, you should talk!" I retorted. I mimicked her voice so perfectly that I elicited a few chuckles from fellow Amber haters. "Like at least I can use like proper English. And like, at least I got into this school based on my like grades and not like on the amount of money Mommy and Daddy could donate!"

"Miss Sterling that is quite enough! You were the one not paying attention, not Miss Stern," Sister said as she turned to a sniffling Amber. "It is all right Amber," the nun said gently. "You have fine grades and there is nothing wrong with the way you speak."

That remark did it! I used an incorrect word in Sister Marguerite's once and because of that I was forced to write a three page paper on the difference between then and than. I angrily got to my feet. "This is totally fucked up! This place needs to stop catering to Amber Stern simply because her father donates thousands of dollars to Saint Mary's Academy. She should be treated the same way by the faculty as every other student."

Sister Marguerite's face turned scarlet. "Get out of my classroom!"

"With pleasure **Miss** Marguerite!" I grabbed my book bag from the floor. "Oh and Amber, like you really need to like toughen up," I said as I exited the classroom, leaving the horrified nun staring at me with a look of seething anger on her face.

I stormed down the two flights of stairs until I reached the locker area. When I opened my locker door, I dumped my history books into the small space, grabbed my jacket and slammed the metal door behind me. The sound echoed loudly in the nearly deserted hallway.

I started down the spinach colored hall, book bag slung over one shoulder and my hands balled in my jacket pockets.

"Yo Mac! Where the fuck is the fire?"

"Beck, leave me alone. I'm in a bad mood."

"I can fuckin' see that. Is it because of what happened in history?"

I stopped walking and turned to face my best friend who was running to catch up with me. "How the hell do you know about that? You were in chemistry!"

"No shit, of course I was in chemistry. However I saw one of Amber's lackeys walking down the hallway in a bitchy mood and I asked her what happened. She told me everything. Way to go lil' Mac!"

I stared at my best friend Rebecca Marshal and thought, not for the first time, how a girl like her became my closest friend. She was exceptionally beautiful, tall and slender, with long curly red hair and striking green eyes that got the attention of every boy in the school. She had a rough mannerism and cursed horribly. She was bisexual and flaunted her sexuality with pride, but that did not deter the boys from wanting her or, for that matter, some of the girls. And she satisfied both, from what I heard in the hallways. To put it mildly, she was my complete opposite.

"Look Beck, can't you just leave me alone?"

"No," she said pushing me into one of the lockers. She pinned me against the metal. Although I was physically much stronger then her and could take an ass-whipping much quicker, I allowed her to pinion me. I was in no mood to fight her. "I'm not going to let you go until we discuss-"

"Look Beck, there is nothing to discuss. I'm just pissed off at the politics in this school."

"There's something else on your mind and I know it. What is it?"

"Sometimes, I just wish—I just wish I could go back in time, and escape everything. Sometimes I wish I could throw in my lot with Sherlock Holmes, solve cases with him—you know where I could really use my brain! Then I wouldn't have to worry about-"

"Oh shut up," Becky said placing one of her lacquered fingers against my lips. "You know he's fuckin' fictional. Now, I, on the other hand, am one hundred percent pure woman with needs and wants. And I want you Mackenzie Sterling, I want you so badly."

"Becky, get off me," I said, feeling uncomfortable with how the conversation was going. I tried to push her away from me, but she held fast, an unhidden flash of desire was in her green eyes. "You know I don't walk the crooked line. I love you as a best friend Beck, but that's it. I go for just guys and you know it." I winced at the look of pain that crossed over my best friend's face. But she knew my feelings on such matters and once and awhile, when she decided to be flirtatious, I had to be frank with her.

In a second the pain disappeared and a smile spread over her face and reached her eyes. She messed my hair playfully and moved aside so I could step away from the lockers. "Yeah I love you as a best friend too Mac, and I'm happy to remain as such. However," she dropped her voice, "we would be really good together. So if you ever want to experiment…"

"Never gonna happen Beck," I interrupted.

She laughed. "Well just in case, you know my number."

"Sure do," I replied and once again began walking down the hall.

"Wait up Mac!"

"I want some time alone Becky," I replied. I was no longer mad about history, but I wanted to just be by myself and analyze the worth of my life. To clear my mind of all the doubts and to boost my ego somewhat, I would go onto the main thoroughfare of the town and spend my free time looking at people and deducing their jobs and some things about their lives.

"Oh no you don't," Becky said grabbing my arm. "Hell no, I know what you're gonna do! You're gonna contemplate…"

"Ooh, big word," I said with a wiry smile.

"Fuck off Miss English Major. But as I was sayin' you're gonna contemplate killin' yourself and then when you actually think you might do it, you'll get scared and spend the rest of the time lookin' at people and tellin' them stuff about themselves."

"You know me like a book Beck, and I'm not going to deny that."

"You're going to fucking graduate in what, two months? Can't you lighten up a little?"

I shook my head in the negative and continued to walk down the long corridor.

"Well me and you are going to go out right now," she grabbed my sleeve.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Me? I'd like to go get laid, but fear not lil' Mac. We're going to go somewhere you can relax."

"Where?"

"You'll see, now come on!"

Being curious and adventurous by nature, I followed my best friend to the main office where we signed out. When we stepped outside, Becky began to twirl around on the grass.

"Freedom, sweet freedom!" She said with a laugh.

"I wanna walk, I don't feel like drivin'," I said as she started towards my yellow Mustang.

"Fine, make me exercise!" Becky pulled a face, but I ignored it.

"Where are we going?"

"Madame Sophie's," my best friend said with an impish smile.

I groaned. "Do I really have to go to your clairvoyant?"

"My what?"

"Your psychic! How is Madame Sophie going to help me relax?"

Becky did not answer me until we reached the old brightly colored caravan car on the outskirts of town. "She has a new spell," my friend said knocking on the door. "It makes wishes come true."

"Yeah, I'll believe that bullshit when pigs can fly," I growled hotly. "Can't we just go grab some lunch or something?"

"No," Becky said knocking once again.

I watched in mute annoyance as a small sliding panel on the red door was pushed aside. A pair of big black eyes could be seen through the rectangular hole.

"Who dares to enter Madame's residence, eh?"

"Hey Madame Sophie, it's me Becky."

"Ooh! My leetle Rebecca! 'Ow nice to see you again. And what is this? You brought a friend along?"

"See Mac, she's really psychic," Becky said with a broad smile.

I nodded as the door opened. "She saw me through the slot you moron."

"Ah, my leetle one, you are very observant," said the woman I took to be Madame Sophie. She was dressed in long flowing robes, common of Gypsies in the time of Victor Hugo. Her skin was deeply tanned and her black curly hair was pulled back with a purple sash. A large golden hoop earring was in her left ear, a mark of good fortune among Gypsies, or so I read.

She ushered Becky and me into a dark and dusty room inside the caravan car. The room itself smelt of the most disgusting spices that have ever assaulted the nostrils of humanity. I was forced to choke down my rising gorge. Becky was undisturbed by the smell.

"Please sit leetle ones and tell Madame Sophie why you are 'ere," her speech was laden with an over practiced Transylvanian accent. She indicated for Becky and me to sit down in two worn wooden chairs that surrounded a table covered with violet silk and had a crystal ball in its center.

Not wanting to seem, rude I sat.

"Well Madame Sophie," Becky said with so much enthusiasm that I had to resist the urge to hurl. "Mac here is having a problem."

The great owl eyes of the Gypsy stared at me. "What is the matter leetle one?"

_If you were such a psychic, you'd be able to tell me, now wouldn't you? _I withstood the desire to speak my thoughts aloud. I sighed and smiled feebly. "Really Madame, I don't have a problem. Becky makes too much of a trifle."

Obviously if I couldn't speak about my problems with my family or best friend, I certainly wasn't going to tell them to some woman that was dressed several months too early for Halloween.

"Madame Sophie, Mac thinks that she doesn't fit in. She wants to go to the Victorian Era and meet Sherlock Holmes. She thinks she'd be much more suited there then here."

"Is that true leetle one?" Madame Sophie asked me once again fixing me with her owl like stare.

_If I say yes, can I leave?_ "Yeah, absolutely."

The Gypsy didn't recognize my sarcasm. "Well then leetle one, perhaps Madame Sophie can feex your problem eh? I have a spell here that can tweest the barriers of time."

_Oh Jesus Christ!_ _Does she honestly expect any self respecting person to buy that load of garbage? _I looked at Becky and saw her eyes wide with anticipation. _Christ! Beck believes this shit too? What is the world coming to?_

"Leetle one, you look skeptical," Madame Sophie observed.

_I look skeptical because I am skeptical. _"Madame Sophie, I hate to tell you, but twisting the barriers of time is impossible. Science cannot…"

"Ah leetle Mackenzie, you must learn to let your convictions and hardcore belief in facts go. Leave them at the door. Start to look at life weeth a leetle open mind, eh?"

"I look at life with an open mind ma'am," I said with some heat. "However, I do not believe in supernatural mumbo-jumbo. There is no way in hell that you can blur time boundaries. If you could, don't you think that every single person would go back in time, thus destroying history as we know it?"

"Ah, Madame Sophie knows the trick. But no one else does," the Gypsy said with some arrogance.

_Please stop referring to yourself in the third person. I would greatly appreciate it. _"I'm sure you and every other fraud say that."

"Mac!" Becky was mortified at my rudeness.

"Becky, do not be angry with her. She is jus' being honest. Madame Sophie likes to show people who do not believe that they are wrong."

"You'll be hard pressed to do that," I said.

"Perhaps not. Would you care to experiment weeth me or are you to skeptical?"

"Was that a challenge?" I asked.

"Perhaps."

"No one challenge is too great for me Madame."

"Good, so you and Becky will join me then?"

"Sure!" Becky said with a wide grin.

"Whatever, yeah I'm in," I replied, growing bored with the course of the conversation. I wanted to leave and I figured the only way I could do that was to humor the Gypsy.

"Good!" Madame Sophie dimmed all the lights in the small car until we were sitting in shadow. "Now, Becky you and Mac hold hands. Perrrfecto!" She rolled the 'r' in attempt to make herself seem more mysterious.

_Christ! How much longer is this going to last?_

"Now, I will call forth spirits of time to come and move the boundaries. Spirits come forth, come forth sprits. You must make a path to the Victorian Era for these two young adventurers."

"Is she for real?" I asked not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

"Hush up Mac! You'll ruin the spell!" Becky said, closing her eyes tightly.

I sighed loudly and continued to listen to the Gypsy chant nonsense, calling unreal spirits to bend the space-time continuum. Suddenly Madame Sophie's words turned into a jumble and I began to feel extremely light headed.

_What the hell? _Multicolored spots began to swim before my eyes and my ears started to ring. _That woman gave me some sort of hallucinogenic! _I suddenly felt a falling sensation and then my body painfully crashed down on something hard. My vision completely washed to black.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: My Plight Begins**

I was brought back into consciousness by the sound of distant voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying, nor did I care. Figuring it was Madame Sophia and Becky, I kept my eyes shut in attempt to ease the throbbing pain in my head. When I felt the presence of another face in mine, I reluctantly opened my eyes.

Much to my surprise, the face I was staring into was not that of Madame Sophie! The features were that of a man with light green eyes. He was handsome in his own way, but his face was creased with worry. His hair was a reddish-brown and his brown mustache made him look like a gentleman of Victorian England.

"Are you all right?" He asked his voice held an English accent.

I attempted to nod, but the pain was too great.

"Keep you head still," he said loudly, as though I did not understand what he was saying.

I was vaguely aware of the sounds of people and horse hooves, but I couldn't be sure if they were real or imagined.

"W-what happened?" I asked weakly.

"Good Lord!" He muttered, "You speak English!"

"Duh!" I replied. Was this guy on crack or something?

I noticed his eyes traveling up and down my body and I suddenly tensed. What was this guy up to? "Hey, I don't know who the hell you are, but I'm a black belt in Taekwondo and I swear if you try anything you'll regret it," I said making my voice sound as hard as possible. So maybe I wasn't a black belt, but I was fairly certain that I could do some damage to this dude if he attempted to do something, especially since he was standing over me, balls directly above my knee.

He stared at me quizzically. "Madame, I did not mean to offend you," he said gently. "I was just curious as to why you are dressed so strangely."

I looked down at my jeans and tee-shirt. What did this guy expect me to wear to school on one of the few occasions we didn't have to wear those damn uniforms, an evening gown? I shrugged and looked around. Much to my surprise, I was not sitting in Madame Sophie's car. Instead of a wooden seat under me, I saw and felt cobblestone. Instead of strange colored cloths hanging around me, I saw several buildings. Instead of the seeing the bulky form of the fake psychic, I saw many people dressed weird and walking around aimlessly. Where the hell was I?

_I must be hallucinating. _

"What happened?" I muttered, my head still felt like it was going to explode.

"You may have sustained a slight concussion," the man said quietly.

"Where am I?"

He cocked one of his eyebrows and looked at me sympathetically. "That carriage must've hit you harder then I originally thought."

"What carriage? Will you please start making some sense?"

"The carriage that nearly ran you down as you were crossing the street; don't you remember?"

_Remember a carriage? What is this guy for real? I'm sitting in a psychic's caravan car, and there are no carriages to run me over!_

"Come," he said gently placing an arm around my shoulders. "I'll help you stand."

He slowly brought be to a sitting position and another wave of dizziness overcame me. Quickly I closed my eyes until the feeling passed.

"Are you going to be all right?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, I think so," I replied. My mind was reeling. "I wish I knew what the hell was going on. I mean I know I was at school and Sister Marguerite embarrassed me. I remember Becky pinning me against the lockers, I remember her dragging me to Madame Sophie's but I don't remember any carriage…"My musing was interrupted when the stranger placed his hand delicately on my forehead as though to check for a fever.

"Sir, I'm not feverish."

He quickly removed his hand.

"Look, can you help me stand please? Maybe once I'm on my feet, this hallucination will go away, and I'll be back in that disgusting room."

"Here, lean on me," he said placing his arm around my waist. I placed my left arm around his shoulders. "We'll go back to my hotel room where you can rest."

Before I could question him as to what he meant by his 'hotel room,' a strange, horse drawn carriage hurriedly made its way down a crowded street.

"Damn hansom cabs!" The man shouted with indignation. "Please excuse my language," he said looking at me. "But it was a cab going at that speed that hit you."

_Excuse your language? What are you kidding me? I don't care what language you use buddy, but I want to know why there is a horse-drawn cab and a crowded street in Crawton Township! Wait, did he say hansom cab? Those people are dressed really weird…what's up with that lady in that long flowing dress? Those guys in tuxes are really strange…strange clothes, hansom cabs, unusual chivalry...that was only found in the…no! No, that's impossible, or is it? _

An idea suddenly began to formulate in my mind. I quickly turned to my companion. "What year is this?"

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, his voice was filled with surprise at the intensity with which I asked my question.

"Look, I know this sounds totally insane, and it probably is totally insane, but please, what year is this?"

"Eighteen hundred ninety one," he replied, without hesitation.

"Eighteen ninety one," I allowed the date to sink into my mind. "All right, where am I?"

"Are you sure you're all right?" He asked concern once again crept into his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine other than a headache. Listen, something really strange has happened to me. Now please tell me where I am."

"We're in Paris, France. You mean you don't remember?"

_Mackenzie, breathe! That's it! Okay, you were in the Gypsy's car and now suddenly you're in Paris, France in the year eighteen ninety one. Breathe! Deep breaths! Okay, okay…I'm cool with this!_

I allowed the man's statement, coupled with the strange sights around me and the knowledge of what happened to me before, sink into my mind. Somehow, the psychic's spell must've worked and I was transported back in time.

"Miss, may I have the honor of your name?"

"Yeah sorry! I'm Mackenzie, Mackenzie Sterling."

"Pleased to meet you," he said with a smile that lit up his entire face. "I'm Doctor John H. Watson."

When he mentioned his name, I felt my jaw go slack. I certainly didn't see that one coming.

"Miss Sterling are you all right? You look sick."

Suddenly, his chivalry got on my nerves and I, much to my chagrin, took my frustration out on him. "Do I look okay? I'm in the middle of one of the worst days of my entire life, when my best friend dragged me to a clairvoyant who supposedly cast a spell on us and now I find out I'm in Paris, France in eighteen ninety one and I must admit somehow the spell worked. To top it all off, I'm being escorted to a hotel room by a fictional character. Yeah, I'm just peachy."

Dr. Watson stopped walking and smiled at me sympathetically. "I'm glad that my hotel is not far from here. You poor thing, you're suffering from delusions!"

"No, no I'm not! Listen to me, I'm not from here. I'm from America in the year two thousand four and you Dr. Watson are a fictional character!"

"Miss Sterling, although my hotel is not far from here, I think it would be best if I hailed a cab. Judging by your current mental state, you suffered from more than a slight concussion as a result of your accident. The faster we get to my hotel room, the faster I can examine you."

"Look Doc, I'm not crazy!"

"I never said that you were. I'm simply suggesting that you could have had an ill effect from your accident which affected…"

"No!" I said cutting him off mid-sentence. How was I ever going to make him understand? "There is nothing wrong with my head! I wish I had someway to prove it to you!" I suddenly remembered my CD player and text books that were in my book bag that Watson had slung over one of his broad shoulders. "I do have proof! If you stop walking I can show you!"

"You can show me once we are reach our destination," he said, his tone of voice was one that attempted to mollify me. He suddenly raised his hand, hailing a near-by hansom cab. The cab pulled to the curb and Doctor Watson helped me into it.

He then gave the cabbie what I am assuming was the name of the hotel. The good doctor was barely seated when the cab began rattling off to a destination unknown to me.

The cab pulled in front of a tall brick building with an antiquated yet quaint appearance. Dr. Watson alighted and then helped me down. Once he paid the cabbie, the two of us made our way to the hotel door.

A door-man wearing a bright red uniform held the door for us so Watson could continue to assist me. Frankly, after what I told him, I knew he feared for my sanity.

The hotel interior was certainly amazing. Everything was done-up in gold. The furniture was all wine colored and even though it showed signs of wear, was still immaculate.

"Holiday Inn should see this place," I murmured.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," I replied quickly.

He shrugged and helped me up the stairs until we reached the third floor. Once there, with his free hand, he fished in his pocket and produced a key. He inserted it in the door with the number '331' written on it in gold.

Slowly he opened the door and removed his arm from my waist to allow me to enter. "Thanks," I said as I stepped into the room.

"Where the hell have you been?" A voice asked taking me completely by surprise.

I recognized the voice at once. "Becky!" I shouted and hurried over to my friend who was lying on a couch. "Oh my God am I ever glad to see you! What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "I don't even know where here is. I don't even know where here is. All I know is one second I'm with you in Madame Sophie's and then suddenly, I'm lying on some street with friggin' horses running all over the place, staring at you 'cause you're lying on the ground not moving!" She gave me a wiry smile. "Suddenly, while I was trying to get you up, these two strange guys showed up from out of friggin' no where and one practically drags me to this hotel and the other stayed with you. I'm tellin' you lil' Mac, I swear we stepped into the Twilight Zone or something. Thank God you're here, 'cause I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Becky, relax. I don't know what's going on here either. All of a sudden, I'm being escorted here by a fictional character."

"Madame! Why do you keep calling me fictional?"

I turned and looked at Dr. Watson, who was standing in the doorway with a look of indignation on his face. "Doc, I know this is going to be really hard for you to comprehend, because I'm just starting to, but I…we're not from this era.

'We are from the twenty first century. Where we're from, you and your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes are considered fictional characters that were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who had nothing better to do than write while waiting for his patients. I know you think I'm crazy, but I'm not. If you hand me my book bag I can show you something."

"Hand you your what?"

"That thing on your shoulder," Beck replied nervously.

Watson cautiously set it down. Immediately I rummaged through it, and when I found my CD player I let out a shout of triumph. "Yes!" Quickly I checked the CD and was thrilled when I had my Faust CD in it. I didn't think the Victorian Era was reading for Blink 182 or Metallica.

Carefully, I adjusted the volume to a normal level and handed the headset to Watson. I instructed him how to put it on. This he did with much trepidation. I checked the volume again and pressed the play button. I waited for his reaction.

His reaction was not long in coming. As soon as the music began, a look of pure delight spread across his features. I turned to Becky and gave her a thumbs up.

"What CD is it?" She mouthed.

"Faust," I replied.

My friend rolled her green eyes.

When the music finished, Watson removed the headset and handed it to me. "That was remarkable! Where did that music come from?" He asked, still in amazement.

I chuckled and opened the CD player and removed my 'Faust' CD. "You see Doc," I replied spinning the CD on my finger, "this is called a compact disk. In order to create a CD, people…" Damn this was much more difficult then I expected! "People use these things called computers—wait lemme back track. Singers sing songs and they are recorded in a studio."

"A studio?"

_Shit!_ "Okay Doc, a studio has microphones and a lot of recording equipment-"

"I am sorry, but I do not understand," Watson admitted with a frown.

Quickly I looked at Becky, hoping she would be able to give me a hand in my explanation.

"Okay Doctor, tell me, you know what a singer is right?" Becky asked cocking an eyebrow.

Watson nodded. "Yes but-"

"No buts," Becky said quickly. "Singers go into a room and sing their hearts out. People then record what they sing and burn the songs onto a CD with the use of a computer."

"A computer? Burn, with a fire?"

Becky shook her head angrily. "No goddamnit! A computer is-"

"Doctor Watson, think of a big box. And you can reach into the box and pull out any type of information you want. So people put the songs onto the singers, and then copy them onto a CD like this," I said pointing to it. "Then people sell them and someone like me or Beck buys them."

Watson considered my words for some moments. "That is certainly interesting," he muttered. "Can you tell me anything else about the time you are from?"

"Sure Doc," I replied, feeling much more confident. After showing Watson the CD, there was no way he could possibly think I was insane. "Want to know about modern medicine?"

He raised his eyebrows, most probably at my use of the word modern. "Certainly."

I grinned and started to tell Watson what I knew about twenty first century medicine. When I concluded, he stared at me wide-eyed.

"Your story is true then," he said, not bothering to disguise the wonder in his voice. "You two really are from a different time. I am sorry for doubting you."

"Don't be. I can't say I blame you for thinking I was crazy. I mean hell, this entire situation is just as hard for me to swallow as it is for you," I suddenly grimaced when I realized that I'd have to explain Becky's and my appearance to the master detective, Sherlock Holmes. "If it was this hard to explain myself to you, I don't even want to think about how hard it is going to be to explain our situation to Mr. Holmes."

"There is no need to explain the situation again. Although your story sounds far-fetched and fanciful, I cannot doubt, after seeing that strange contraption you hold in your hand, that there is some element of truth in what you say," a voice, sounding a lot like Jeremy Brett's voice, said from behind me.

I quickly turned around and found myself face to face with a man about six feet tall and was so extremely lean he appeared taller. Despite his height and gauntness I could not help but notice his handsome face and well-toned body. His eyes were the color of steel and glittered like two diamonds in the sun. His hawk-like nose gave his face an air of alertness. His high cheekbones and slightly squared chin marked him as a man of determination.

He had a high forehead, which was covered by a shock of thick, raven colored hair. He pushed the stray bit of hair back with one of his long, slender white hands which were blotted with ink and stained by chemicals.

He cut a dashing figure in his black tweed suit, which was free of wrinkles and fit him like a glove. The white shirt which was worn under his vest slightly showed his must chest and hinted that he had a strong flat stomach and well-toned abs. All in all, he was an extremely handsome man, much more so than Sidney Paget's drawings ever suggested. Upon seeing him, I knew he was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective and my literary hero.

For the first time in my life I was completely speechless.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: I Go Head to Head with the Great Detective**

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you are?"

"I-I'm Muh-Mackenzie," I stammered.

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "I take it you are feeling better?"

"Yes sir," I replied, finally finding my voice. "I think you've already met my friend Becky," I said acknowledging my friend on the couch.

"Yes."

He certainly wasn't very talkative! "So Mr. Holmes, what investigation brings you to Paris?"

Holmes glared at Watson; his grey eyes glittered with both anger and surprise. Seeing Watson's discomfort, I decided I had to intervene.

"He didn't tell me," I said hastily. "I deduced it!"

"Excuse me?"

"I deduced you were conducting an investigation and I think I could be of some help to you."

"What makes you think you should be privy to the information of my investigation?" He asked, removing a silver cigarette case from his pants pocket. He removed a cigarette, lit it and inhaled the smoke gratefully. He stared at me keenly for several moments.

"Well for one thing," I said drawing myself to my full height of five foot three inches. I refused to allow Sherlock Holmes to intimidate me. "I have read Dr. Watson's accounts of your cases numerous times and I feel that I have the intelligence to conduct an investigation with you."

At my last statement, Sherlock Holmes burst out laughing. "You feel you have intelligence equal to mine?"

I scowled at him. _Watson's right. He is arrogant._

"I think Mr. Holmes, you should allow me to prove myself before you begin to laugh in my face," I said with as much authority as I could muster.

Holmes began to laugh harder at my attempt to chastise his behavior.

"Really Holmes!" Watson said hotly. "Show the young lady some respect!"

Holmes finally regained control of his laughter and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "You're right Watson," he said between gasps for breath, "I must apologize for my behavior but your statement struck me as extremely entertaining."

"I don't think anything she said was funny," Becky said quietly.

"On the contrary," Holmes said turning to my friend. "Her statement was indeed a comical one. An American girl of about seventeen years of age, who keeps to herself and has been in her share of brawls, is slightly asthmatic, has a keen love for writing and playing the piano, feels that she has intelligence equal to the world's first consulting detective. You must see the humor in that."

At Holmes's deductions, both Becky and Watson stared at him in disbelief.

"How did you know all that about my best friend?" Becky asked her voice was filled with awe. "We've been friends since we were in the third grade and it took me several years to learn what you did about her in less than five minutes."

Sherlock Holmes smiled at my friend's astonishment. "It's sim…"

"Simplicity in itself," I said cutting the great detective off mid-sentence. I figured it was time someone matched his arrogance. "Mr. Holmes deduced that I was American by my accent. My age is not that hard to determine, all he had to do was take one look at me and realize that I am somewhere between thirteen and eighteen years of age. You did notice that he said 'about seventeen' meaning he was taking an educated guess at my exact age."

"I never guess!" Holmes interrupted angrily.

"Yes I know it's destructive to the logical faculty. All right sir, you assumed my age. Is that terminology better? I thought so.

'As for the fact that I have been in several fights, you will notice there are roughly three scars on my forehead and scars on the knuckles of my right hand. Only someone who has had her share of fights would have sustained such injuries."

"The fact that your asthmatic? Come on Mac, you'll be hard pressed to tell me how he knew that," Becky said.

"Not at all," I replied. "If you listen to me closely, you will hear a slight wheeze when I exhale. My breathing is also slightly irregular. Am I correct so far Mr. Holmes?"

The detective nodded but said nothing.

"What about your love for writing and playing the piano?"

"I'm getting to that! My love for writing, let's see how ever did he deduce that?" I paused for a moment and pretended to think. "Oh yes! If you will observe Becky, there is a callosity on the side of my right middle finger, which develops from holding a pen or pencil tightly for several hours. As Mr. Holmes knows, only a writer would be required to hold a pen or pencil for that length of time.

'He deduced my love for the piano by once again looking at my hands. My fingers are extremely slender and well shaped no doubt from playing the instrument for a length of time. There are also several stretch marks on that little bit of fat between my thumb and forefinger. That is caused by reaching across eight keys to grab an octave. No instrument, save a piano, would cause its player to have stretch marks in that particular area.

'I think I followed your train of thought perfectly Mr. Holmes. Is there anything that I missed?"

When I saw the look on the great detective's face, I wished I had a camera. He looked as though he'd just seen a ghost! His mouth was open slightly and his eyes were filled with surprise.

'What's the matter Mr. Holmes, cat got your tongue?" I asked; my words dripped with sarcasm. I must admit that I thoroughly enjoyed one-upping the great detective.

I cast a glance at Watson and noticed he was attempting to hide a smile.

Holmes cleared his throat and stared at the floor in front of me. "You followed my train of thought perfectly," he said, his voice slightly horse.

Upon seeing his discomfort, my bubble of elation popped and I suddenly felt guilty. I hadn't meant to embarrass him. I simply wanted to show him that he couldn't just walk all over me and cast me aside like a second rate citizen. I was intelligent and I wanted to show him that just because I was a woman, it didn't mean I could not use my brain. I wanted to apologize, but I did not want to embarrass the man further.

"Well Holmes," Watson said, "did Miss Sterling…"

"Please, call me Mackenzie."

"Did Mackenzie prove herself worthy of your trust?" Watson asked his voice gentle yet firm.

Slowly the detective nodded. "You do not have intelligence equal to my own, but…"

"In all honesty, Mr. Holmes, you're right. I don't have intelligence equal to yours," I said with a slight smile. After all, since Becky and I seemed to be at the mercy of these two men, I decided to attempt to rectify my earlier burst of egotism.

My honesty seemed to placate Holmes. "Yes, quite. However, I am curious as to what you intend to do now that you are here."

The course in conversation unnerved me slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Where do you intend to stay?"

I felt myself pale. "Huh?"

"Obviously you cannot stay here Miss," Holmes said with some heat. "There is no room--"

"Holmes! There is plenty of space and besides the hotel has--"

"Watson, this topic is not open for discussion! These two women," he said the word with a large amount of disgust "cannot stay here."

"But Mister Holmes!"

"Enough out of you wench," the detective said with a grunt. He sat in a chair, his fingertips pressed together and stared into the fire. "You are free to go."

"Holmes, we cannot throw these two young women into the street!"

"We can and we are," the detective replied quickly.

"Mister Holmes, if you would just let me get a word in!" My voice took on a note of panic. I was, I will admit, terrified. I knew nothing of Victorian France and could not possibly survive on my own. "Listen, I…we could, I don't know, we could do something, you know possibly help you organize research--"

"No."

"Mister Holmes, here you like science don't you?"

The detective raised his eyebrows. "What the devil?"

Quickly I rummaged into my book bag and grabbed my chemistry book. "This is what science is like in the twenty first century!"

His grey eyes took in the book. "Science in the twenty first century?"

"Oh and here," I grabbed the criminal justice book out of my bag. "This is the justice system and how a criminal is treated in my time. This book also discusses different forensic techniques, like how a criminal investigation is conducted."

Holmes's eyes widened. "Honestly?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Becky said realizing what I was doing. "It's totally interesting!"

"Give me the books," Holmes said quickly.

I went to hand him the textbooks but withdrew my hand as he moved to take them. "You can see 'em on one condition."

"And what might that be?"

"You let Beck and me stay," I said, making my voice sound as hard as possible. "If you let us, then the books are yours. If you say no, I swear I will throw them into the fire."

"Go ahead and destroy them," the detective said quickly. "You cannot stay here."

"Fine," I said, crossing over to the fire place. My hands were shaking. There was nothing else I could use to bargain with him. I felt tears of frustration well up in my eyes but I angrily blinked them away. "Last chance Holmes," I said lowering the books toward the flames.

The detective jumped from his seat and grabbed my hand before I could drop the books. "You are a harlot," he growled hotly.

I smiled and handed the books to him, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. "Here you go Mister Holmes," I said sweetly.

He snatched the books from my hand and began to pursue them. He looked up a moment later. "Since you have proven that you can follow a simple chain of reasoning, I shall tell you something of my current case, and you will decide the best way to make yourselves useful."

I grinned and barely resisted the urge to hug him. However, I knew Holmes's aversion to emotion of any kind and I thought that hugging him might completely scare him off. Besides, I didn't need him to think that I was completely crazy. "Thank you sir," was all I said.

"Mac, can I talk to you for a minute?" Becky asked, her voice suddenly entering the conversation.

"Can't it wait?" I wanted to Holmes to tell me about his case before he changed his mind.

"No Mac, it can't wait," Becky said, her voice had an edge to it that I've never heard before.

I looked helplessly at Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

"You can use my bedroom for your conference," Holmes offered. "Watson and I will remain here. It's right through there," he said pointing to a doorway.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: My Best Friend Gives Me a Reality Check **

Becky got to her feet and followed me into the room Sherlock Holmes was occupying.

"What's up?" I asked, anxious to get back to the sitting room.

"Listen," Becky said in a conspiring tone. "You can't help with this investigation."

"And why not?" I asked hotly.

"Because we have a problem of our own."

"What problem?"

"Duh!" She said gently tapping my forehead. "Don't you realize we have to figure out a way to get back home?"

I closed my eyes, realizing that she was right. "But Becky, this is an opportunity of a lifetime! How many people can say they helped Sherlock Holmes solve a case?"

"Plenty of people, like those in asylums," Becky said hotly. "I mean Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are after all fictional characters. We don't even know if these two people are legit."

"Trust me," I said quietly, "they're who they say they are."

"And how the hell do you know that?"

I was silent for several minutes. How was I supposed to explain the feeling I got when I first laid eyes on the great detective? It seemed as though he could look through me and read my inner most thoughts, a feeling that only the great detective could give you.

"Look, you're gonna think I lost it…"

"I already know you lost it. That's why we're friends, remember?"

I smiled at her comment. It is a philosophy of mine that the only person who can insult you and not put you down is your best friend. Here was a definite following of the rule. "Mr. Holmes is a genius and if we help him in this investigation, I guarantee he'll help us get home."

Becky rolled her blue eyes. "You guarantee he'll help you. All right Einstein, for argument's sake, let's just say that I buy this whole time travel thing and the fact that we met two fictional characters. If he is the so-called 'great detective' and we are seriously in the eighteenth century…"

"Nineteenth century," I corrected.

"What ever! If we're in the **nineteenth **century, how is he going to be able to help us get back to the twenty-first century, a time he's never even heard of? Do you have an answer for that?"

In reality, her argument was a sound one. I had no idea how Sherlock Holmes was suppose to help us return home and I was seriously doubting the possibility of ever returning home. However, I didn't need Becky to know my own confusion and doubts. "Trust me, he'll find a way," I said with more confidence than I felt. "I know he will." I can safely admit that I spoke the words more to convince myself then to convince my best friend.

"Mac," she said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared. I mean what if we never get home?"

I was frightened of that too, but I didn't want my friend to know my fear. I was always the stronger of the two in our friendship and it was a role I was accustomed to playing. Becky too understood that I was stronger and I knew if I admitted I was as scared as she was, panic would ensue. "Then I guess Holmes and Watson will have to put up with us," I said, making my voice seem light. My dad always told me the best way to combat fear was with humor and I prayed that his advice would prove correct.

"Asshole," she said, wiping away the tears that were filling her eyes.

"Hey, we'll get out of here. Our school play is in two weeks and since I'm the lead, I have no choice but to show up. Don't worry about it; everything will turn out all right. Just have faith."

She smiled weakly and quickly hugged me. I returned the embrace and then pushed away.

"Come on Beck, we don't want to keep those two Victorian gentlemen waiting," I said opening the bedroom door.

Becky rolled her eyes and followed me out of the bedroom.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: The Case**

"Did you two solve your problem?" Dr. Watson asked when we reentered the sitting room.

I shook my head, in attempt to brush away my fears. "No, but I'm not worried about it. It'll get solved eventually. So Mr. Holmes, are you going to tell me about this investigation?" I asked, feeling more comfortable dealing with anything that didn't have to do with my home. I flopped down on the sofa across from the great detective and grinned at him. My smile was greeted by a look of indifference.

He cleared his throat and lit an oily black pipe. "Before I divulge any information to you," Holmes said puffing on his pipe, "you must promise me that you will use the utmost discretion. Not one word of what I am about to tell is to leave this room. Is that understood?"

"I promise that we won't say anything," I said quickly.

Holmes's grey eyes rested on Becky as he waited for her to answer.

"I promise," she muttered.

Once he seemed satisfied that he could trust us, he sunk down in his chair, closed his eyes and steepled his fingers. "Several days ago a man entered my sitting room. He was of medium height and strong build with a high forehead and cold blue eyes. Although his appearance was disheveled, his brown hair, which was beginning to grey, was wind-swept and his clothing, made of the best material was thoroughly wrinkled, he carried himself with an air of an aristocrat.

'I immediately deduced that he was a count of a wealthy family in France. I spoke my deductions and he seemed surprised, although he did not care how I arrived at my conclusions.

'"Vous devez être Sherlock Holmes,' he said in French. His voice was gentle and cultured.

'Cela est mon monsieur de nom. Parlez-vous anglais?'

He told me that he spoke English, although not well and the rest of the interview was conducted in my native tongue. After the usual pleasantries, the man introduced himself to me as Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny. His name was not unknown to me. His family is one of the oldest and most distinguished families in all of France. He said his problem was of the most important nature and that it needed my immediate attention.

His problem was trivial and was hardly criminal. I would not have accepted it, if some of the details of his account did not catch my interest.

Le Comte de Chagny has a younger brother Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. This young viscount is a sailor and has recently returned from a voyage. Philippe decided to take his brother to the opera Faust, which was playing at l'opera Garnier.

During Faust, it seems that Raoul noticed a very young woman in the chorus. Philippe was thoroughly overjoyed that his brother was finally taking notice of the fairer sex and after the opera took his brother backstage to meet the young woman. Since the count had other business to attend to in the opera house, he left his brother alone at the dressing room of the chorus girl.

When the count returned to the dressing room, he was chagrined to see his brother extremely upset. Asking what was the matter; Raoul explained that Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, the chorus girl, took ill after the performance and the doctor attending to her insisted that Raoul leave the room."

"A very sensible thing for the doctor to do," Watson interrupted.

Holmes glared at his friend and continued with his narrative. "Raoul decided to wait in the corridor until Mademoiselle Daaé left. When the doctor finally exited the room, Raoul decided to enter. He had his hand on the door knob but hesitated when he heard two voices emanating from the dressing room.

The impetuous youth decided to eavesdrop on the conversation which ran thus:

A male's voice: 'Christine you must love me. You do love me don't you?'

Mademoiselle Daaé: 'I sing only for you! How can you ask such a thing?'

A male's voice: 'Child, your soul is a beautiful thing. _The angels wept tonight._'

Upon hearing this, Raoul de Chagny grew extremely angry. He decided to wait until Mademoiselle Daaé left and then he would confront the man who was in her dressing room. He waited in shadow until Mm. Daaé left the dressing room and then he entered, ready to challenge the man. Much to his surprise, the small room was empty."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Are you serious?"

"Quite. After that night, it seems that the young de Chagny became obsessed with the girl. One day, Raoul received a letter from her."

"Do you have the letter?"

Sherlock Holmes nodded and read it aloud for my benefit.

"'My dear Raoul,' (it read)

'I have not forgotten the little boy that jumped into the sea to fetch my scarf. I am writing to you today because in a month I am heading to Perros where my poor father, whom you knew very well, is buried. The anniversary of his death is near, and I would like to say good-bye to him once again. He is buried in the church where we use to play as children and where we said our final good-byes. If you care to pay your respects to my poor father and speak with me like you said you wanted to, then I will be at Perros.

Fondly,

Christine Daaé'

'There is more," Holmes said replacing the letter in his pocket.

"Yes, I'm sure. Mr. Holmes, it seems from that letter, that Raoul and Christine were childhood friends. Is that so?"

"Yes," he replied. "I asked the Count and he told me his brother and Mademoiselle Daaé did know each other and when they were young, Raoul's governess would take him to play near where Christine lived."

"Cool," I replied.

"I'm sorry," Watson said getting to his feet. "I should stroke the fire. How very remiss of me."

It took me a moment before I realized what Watson was talking about. When I finally understood, I busted out laughing. Both the detective and the doctor looked at me as though I completely lost my mind.

"No Doc, I'm not cold," I said once I caught my breath. "Cool is just an expression people use. It means awesome," when they still didn't know what I meant, I wracked by brain to find a synonym for cool. "It means interesting," I said when I finally thought of one.

"Oh," Watson replied. "Cool." He tested the word and then smiled. "Cool."

Holmes groaned and cleared his throat angrily. All of us returned our attention to the detective. "The Count informed me that it was my duty to pursue his brother and make sure that he did not become involved with her."

"Certainly an odd case for you Mr. Holmes," I said quietly. "After reading Dr. Watson's accounts of your adventures, I would have thought you'd dismiss him without even hearing his statement."

"Ordinarily I would Mademoiselle Sterling," Holmes said taking a puff at his pipe. "But the disappearing man interested me. How could a man have been in a dressing room and then vanish?"

I shrugged, not knowing what else to do.

"I told the Count that I would think the matter over and he left thanking me profusely in both English and French.

'Not twenty minutes after the Count's departure, I had another client, a Monsieur Firmin Richard, one of the new managers of the Opera Populaire. He informed me that he and his partner, Monsieur Moncharmin had taken over the opera from the previous managers, Monsieurs Debienne and Poligny. He felt that these two gentlemen had left them with quite a problem and wanted me to solve it."

"What could possibly have been amiss at an opera house?"

"Monsieur Richard told me that on the night of the previous manager's retirement, a body was discovered. The chief scene shifter, a Monsieur Joseph Buquet, was found dead, hanging from an old set, in the third cellar of the opera house."

"Nasty!" Becky exclaimed.

Holmes completely ignored her comment and continued with his narrative. "According to my client, Monsieur Mercier, the acting manager, went to cut the poor man down, but when he arrived where the corpse had been found, the rope that was used to hang him was gone."

"What do you mean it was gone? Certainly a dead man could not just jump to the ground and get rid of the rope around his neck," I said, not bothering to disguise the skeptism in my voice.

"I too find it impossible for a rope to just disappear. Monsieur Richard also told me that on the same night, the retiring managers instructed him and Monsieur Moncharmin to change all two thousand locks in the building."

"Oh come on," Becky said with a laugh. "What were those two dudes thinking? I mean there can't possibly be robbers at the opera house."

"Dudes?" Watson asked curiously.

"A slang word for men," I replied quickly. I then returned my attention to Holmes. "Sir, what was the reason for this outrageous request?"

"The retiring managers told my client that the opera was plagued by things much worse than thieves. They said that Garnier's opera house was plagued by ghosts.

My client also told me that these two gentlemen said the opera had one specific ghost who haunted it. The ghost arrived the same time the building was constructed and is even mentioned in the opera's lease."

"Wait, come again? Who mentions a ghost in a lease?" I asked Sherlock Holmes.

He chose to ignore my question. He reached into his waistcoat pocket once again and this time he removed several folded papers, tied together with a piece of red ribbon.

"The lease," he said untying the ribbon, "is a very detailed document. The lease states that the managers are able to choose the opera season control all finances and hold the rights to hire or fire any actor. The document ends with clause ninety eight, or as Monsieur Richard described it, 'the funny clause.' You see, clause ninety eight gives reasons that the aforementioned privileges can be withdrawn.

In addition to the formal information in the clause, there are two conditions written in red ink in what appears to be a child's hand. These two conditions both refer to the Opera Ghost.

Condition fives states that the privileges can be withdrawn if the management fails to pay the Opera Ghost his salary of 20,000 francs a month which comes out to roughly 240,000 francs a year.

Condition six states that box five, on the grand tier, shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera Ghost and cannot be sold under any circumstances. If the box is sold, the lease will be null-in void."

"That's one demanding ghost," I said with a smile.

"Several days later, Monsieur Richard received a letter from the so-called ghost, welcoming them to their new position. The Ghost also accused the men of selling box five, but decided to forgive them, because they may not have read clause ninety eight of the lease. The Ghost also threatened them if box five was sold again. The letter mentioned a Christine Daaé…"

"The girl whom Raoul de Chagny is infatuated with?" I asked, not caring that I completely interrupted his train of thought.

"Correct," Holmes replied. "That is all I know so far. Watson and I arrived in Paris late last night. Today I had planned to go to Garnier's Opera House and discover whether anything else transpired since I spoke with Monsieur Richard. However, my plans were interrupted, when after breakfast, two young women were brought, uninvited, into my hotel room."

I chose to ignore the sarcasm in Sherlock Holmes's last statement. I knew that he despised his privacy being disturbed and I also knew he held a very low opinion of women. However, I did not allow the knowledge that my friend and I completely disrupted him weight heavily on my conscious. We had no where else to go, and I was determined to stay with him and Watson.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: A Disagreement and Another One of My Dilemmas**

"That's certainly a very strange problem," I said with my most charming smile.

"Yes. Do you speak French?"

I nodded. After all, I wasn't completely lying to him. I did have two and a half years of French under my belt.

"Good, then I do not have to worry about you insulting anyone while you are in Paris," the detective said.

"Since we'll be with you most of the time, I don't know why you would worry in the first place," I retorted.

"What?"

"You heard me," I replied quickly.

"I don't know what gave you that incorrect notion, but it would be best if you got it out of your head."

"You gave me that notion Mr. Holmes," I replied sweetly. "You said that I could assist you in your investigation, remember?"

"Yes but I didn't mean that you would be accompanying me anywhere. I merely meant that I would use you as a sounding board."

"You should have specified that before you took me on as an assistant."

"You cannot accompany me and that is final!" Holmes demanded.

"I happen to disagree with that Mr. Holmes."

After several more moments of bickering, Sherlock Holmes, wanting to leave the hotel room, glumly agreed that I could accompany him to the Paris Opera House.

"That's better," I replied smugly. My face suddenly reddened, when a realization hit me that dashed my hopes of joining the great detective. "You were right, I can't go with you."

"And what, pray tell, made you change your mind?"

"Becky and I cannot go parading around nineteenth century Paris dressed in twenty first century jeans, tee shirts and sneakers."

Watson smiled at me. "I think I can solve that problem."

"How?" I asked quietly.

"You see Mademoiselle, next to this hotel happens to be a very nice ladies clothing shop."

"Another problem Doc," I said sadly. "I'm kinda short on cash, which means I don't have any. How 'bout you Becky?"

"Ditto," my friend replied.

Watson grinned. "Money is not a problem ladies. Consider this a gift."

I jumped up from my chair and threw my arms around Watson's neck. "You're awesome!"

"I'm assuming that is a compliment," he said with a laugh. "Come along, we'll go there and the both of you can pick out some nice clothing."

"Watson," Holmes said sharply.

The good doctor turned and looked at his friend. "Since I have grown a second arm," he said with biting sarcasm, "I'm certain that Mackenzie and her friend will accompany us to the opera later this week. Please make sure you buy them something decent to wear."

Watson nodded and led me and Becky out of the hotel room and onto the street once more.

With my brain finally comprehending some of the things that were happening I lingered outside the dress shop for several minutes, attempting to take in my surroundings. There were several hansom cabs on the street, each headed to a destination unknown to me. I wanted to explore this new city, see everything it had to offer.

"Mac!" Becky's voice broke through my thoughts.

"What?"

"Come on!"

Reluctantly, I turned and walked into the dress shop.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: I Meet the Management and Get a Mission From Sherlock Holmes**

"You've got to be kidding me," I said when I was back in the hotel room. I had just put on one of the dresses that Watson bought me. "I have to wear this?"

"Yes," Watson said with a smile. "It is made of the best material. In fact my Mary has a similar dress."

"Your Mary also isn't use to Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger or French Connection. Damn, this is so itchy! I don't see why I just can't wear my jeans!"

"Because it is not proper for a lady to wear trousers. I told you that already," Watson said his supply of patience was certainly rapidly depleting. "You simply cannot go about Paris wearing men's clothing."

"But 'trousers' are not made exclusively for men!"

"I don't suppose you listened to the difficult time I had explaining to the woman at the dress shop the reason you and your friend were dressed in men's clothing?"

"No, I didn't listen, mostly because I didn't care. It was none of her business why Becky and I were dressed in jeans."

Watson glared at me. "You must realize that this is not twenty-first century America! You cannot go around dressed like men and that is final."

"Damn Victorian propriety!" I turned to the great detective who remained silent throughout the slight altercation between me and Watson. "Mr. Holmes, do I really have to wear this?"

"If you want to accompany me, as you so adamantly said you did, yes," was his curt reply.

"When you put it that way, I guess I have no choice," I said, my voice filled with resignation. "You coming Becky?"

My best friend shook her head. "You guys go ahead. I'm kinda tired so I think I'll just crash here."

"Then I'll stay with you Mademoiselle. I don't want to leave you alone," Watson said quietly.

"Suit yourselves," I said. I turned to the detective. "You ready?"

As a way of answering, Holmes opened the door and stepped aside, allowing me to exit.

Once we were on the street, I tried to draw Holmes into conversation. "Where are we off to?"

"The Paris Opera House," he replied curtly.

He hailed a cab and helped me into it. He then gave the cabbie the address and soon we were on our way to the Palais Garnier.

Once we were in the cab, I turned to Sherlock Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Hmm?"

"I just, well…I kinda wanted to apologize," I said, stammering slightly. Apologizing was never easy for me, and having to apologize to an egotistic person was very difficult.

He looked at me curiously, and I took his glance as a sign to continue.

"Look, I'm gonna be square with you. I know that I acted really arrogant back there, first by showing you up and then by demanding that you take me with you. But I swear that arrogant attitude is not me. It was just there out of fear. I'd really appreciate it if we could…oh I don't know, start over?"

"Start over? I don't understand what you mean?"

I sighed and silently cursed the twenty first century for allowing such bad English and such weird terminology. "I mean I'd like us to forget about what happened and…well act like we just met for the first time. You could perhaps give me a chance before snapping at me and I could respect you more. What do you say?"

He was silent for several minutes, contemplating my request. Then, much to my surprise he looked up at me and smiled charmingly.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Sherlock Holmes."

"Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes. Je m'appelle Mackenzie Sterling. Je parle anglais, et vous?"

"I speak English also," he replied.

"Very cool."

I smiled when I realized he was totally open to the idea and even embraced it so far as to introduce himself in French.

"Thanks," I said quietly. "I really appreciate it."

"Mademoiselle, I really don't know what you are talking about. We just met."

I laughed. Perhaps I misjudged Sherlock Holmes.

We continued our conversation and Holmes asked me many questions about the twenty first century. I tried to answer his questions to the best of my ability. In no time, we arrived outside the magnificent building.

When we alighted from the cab, my breath caught in my throat. Never in my life did I see a piece of architecture so amazing.

"Mackenzie!"

"Yeah Mr. Holmes?"

"Come along," he said walking into the magnificent building.

I followed him like a little lost puppy. When I stepped into the main foyer, tears instantly welled up in my eyes. I was completely overwhelmed by the majesty and beauty of it. Everything was done-up in gold. Two angels greeted you from atop the grand staircase, serving as guardians protecting the kingdom of music.

"Garnier was certainly some architect," I said to no one in particular.

"I didn't think you would know about this building."

"There are a lot of things I know that would shock you," I said with a sly smile.

Just as he was about to question me as to the meaning of my words, a tall portly man with thinning grey hair and glasses came running towards us.

"Monsieur Holmes!" The man said attempting to catch his breath. "Monsieur Holmes, I was just going to leave for your hotel. Something horrible has happened!"

"Monsieur Richard, my associate Mackenzie," Holmes said calmly.

The manager of the opera glanced at me but made no comment. He instantly returned his attention to the detective. "Monsieur Holmes, you must do something."

"Monsieur Richard, pray calm yourself," the detective said gently yet forcefully. "Perhaps we can go to your office where you can tell us what has happened."

The manager nodded. "Follow me," he said walking past the grand staircase and down hall where he seemed to materialize from.

Holmes and I followed him silently. After what seemed like an eternity of walking, I found myself in a sparsely decorated room that's focal point was a large mahogany desk which was inundated with papers.

"Sit down please," the manager said, indicating two worn chairs opposite the desk.

Once Holmes and I were seated, Monsieur Richard began pacing the room in uncontrollable agitation.

"Honestly Mr. Holmes something must be done. If incidents like this continue, Moncharmin and I will be ruined!"

"I beg you to remember Monsieur Richard that I know nothing of what transpired. I suggest that you sit down and tell me of your problem in a logical manner. I can do nothing without the facts laid before me."

Monsieur Richard took several deep breaths in attempt to calm himself. "Last night," Richard said, anger dripping from every word, "my partner and I sold Box Five. This morning, on my desk was a report from Inspector Perrier."

"Do you have the report?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity, when the question which I formulated in English, exited my mouth in French.

"Of course I have the damned report!" Richard said snatching it from his desk in one of his pudgy hands. "According to Inspector Perrier, the occupants of the box created quite a ruckus. He was forced to turn them out twice."

"Why?" I asked, once again in French. As soon as the words left my mouth, I instantly regretted I did not hold my tongue.

"You ask why? I'll tell you. I'll satisfy your damned curiosity! According to that incompetent man, the occupants of the box began laughing and making obscene comments throughout the entire performance, completely upsetting the house! Many of my patrons are already demanding refunds!"

"Pray calm yourself Monsieur Richard," Holmes said quietly.

"Calm myself!" Richard said. His face was beginning to grow red. "I cannot calm myself Monsieur Holmes! To make matters worse, those people blamed their appalling behavior on the ghost! If these practical jokes continue, Moncharmin and I will be ruined!"

Ignoring the manager's outburst, Holmes looked at him. "May I speak with Inspector Perrier? I would like to hear his version of what happened."

Attempting to control his anger, Richard smiled tightly. "Rémy!" He shouted.

A second later, a tall, thin man with thinning reddish hair and gold pince-nez entered the office. "Yes Monsieur Richard?"

"Get Perrier in here at once."

The man nodded and left the office.

"My secretary Monsieur Rémy," Richard said as way of explanation.

I nodded and sat quietly until we were joined by a short man with brown eyes that nervously looked around the room.

"You wanted to see me Monsieur Richard?" The man asked.

"It was I who sent for you," Holmes said in perfect French. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Mackenzie. You must be Inspector Perrier."

"Oui Monsieur," the man said staring wide-eyed at Sherlock Holmes.

"I want you to tell me what transpired last night in Box Five."

Inspector Perrier glanced nervously at the seething opera manager. "Well," he began, apprehensively shifting his weight from foot to foot, "at first, when I heard the complaints about the couple, I thought they had just come from dinner and had a bit too much to drink."

"You changed your opinion of them?" The consulting detective asked.

"Yes Monsieur," the inspector replied earnestly. "After what they told the box keeper, Madame Giry, I thought they were quite daft."

"What did they say?"

"The couple told me that when they entered the box, they heard a voice saying the box was already occupied. Of course I double and tripled checked that box as well as the surrounding boxes. They were all empty save for Box Five, which was being occupied by the said couple."

"Do you have the name and address of the couple?" I asked.

Inspector Perrier glanced at Monsieur Richard.

"The name of those people," the manager said consulting the receipts from last night's performance, "is Bellemonte, Monsieur et Madame Mathieu Bellemonte. They reside at 34 Champs Elysees."

I made a mental note of the address and looked around the room for a way of escape. I was growing extremely tired of the venomous glances from Monsieur Richard, every time Holmes or I asked a question, and the nervous actions of Inspector Perrier was enough to drive anyone insane.

"Mr. Holmes?" I said gently tugging at his sleeve.

"What?" He asked hotly.

"I think it is important that these people, the Bellemontes, are questioned. Perhaps, while you finish your inquiries here, I can head over to 34 Champs Elysees and speak with them."

"Well," the detective said, weighing my request, "I do not know if I trust a woman, let alone a seventeen year old girl, to speak with witnesses."

"Hey, I thought I proved myself to you in the sitting room!" I said irritably. "Besides how do you know I'll screw up? I might be brilliant and uncover some vital clues, that'll help you. Just give me a chance. Please."

Sherlock Holmes was silent for several moments and I was just about to recite my litany of self worth again when he favored me with an ironical smile. "All right," he said at length. "You can go and speak with them. However, if you offend them in any way…"

"Don't worry sir, I won't! I'll see you later," I said rising from my chair. After nodding a farewell to the manager and the inspector, I fairly sprinted out of the stuffy little office and into the cool Parisian air.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: I Interview a Witness**

I glanced up and down the street, wondering where the hell I was. In all honesty, I had no idea where Champs Elysees was, or how to get there. After several moments of pondering, I decided to try my hand at hailing a cab.

Experimentally, I reached my hand out and waved down a passing hansom. _At least some things never change_, I thought as I climbed up into the tight little compartment. I gave the cabbie the address I was seeking and found myself bouncing along the cobblestone streets.

My heart was pounding in my chest with both nervousness and excitement. Sherlock Holmes entrusted me with a mission and this was my one chance to prove myself to him, that I was worthy of his confidence. That thought both frightened and excited me.

"Vous etes ici," the cabbie called down from his perch, interrupting my thoughts.

I glanced out the small window and saw a small Queen Christine house with a short picked fence surrounding the property. I took several deep breaths and alighted from the cab.

"S'il vous plait, attendez ici," I said, hoping the cabbie would understand that I wanted him to wait for me.

The driver seemed unsure until I showed him some of the money that Dr. Watson had given me.

Now certain the cab would be there when I returned, I opened the gate and began walking up the gravel walkway to thirty-four Champs Elysees.

Never having called at a nineteenth century house, I began looking for a doorbell or something resembling one. All I could find however was a long rope. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled it. A great _bong_ resounded throughout the house and I stood nervously on the porch, hoping the bell would not disturb the occupants of the house too much.

Within five minutes, the heavy wooden door swung open and a wizened woman with silver hair and a long crooked gourd-like nose stared at me.

"Who are you and what do you want?" She asked rudely in French.

I stated my name and told that I wished to speak with either Monsieur or Madame Bellemonte.

"Is either Monsieur or Madame Bellmote expecting you?" She asked her old eyes stared at me.

"I don't believe so," I replied.

"Then go away!" She said beginning to close the door.

Quick thinking came in handy and I put my foot in the doorway making it impossible to close it completely. I shied at the thought of telling Sherlock Holmes I was unable to question the couple because of an elderly lady.

"Madame, listen," I began.

"Either you leave this residence or I will call the police!" She said sternly.

The thought of being locked up in a nineteenth century Parisian jail was not very appealing to me, but that, I decided, was a consequence that I would have to face in order to follow up my line of investigation.

"I'm here on urgent business," I said before she could interrupt me again. "Listen, I just need a few minutes of your employer's time and then I will be on my way…"

"Matilda, what is going on?" A woman's voice said from the hallway.

"Madame Bellemonte, there is an impetuous youth here that is demanding to speak with you and the master."

"Madame Bellemonte," I said calling into the hall. "I need to speak with you. I'm helping Mr. Sherlock Holmes with an investigation and it has to do with what happened to you and your husband last night."

"Oh, the Mr. Sherlock Holmes is going to help me and my husband?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied.

"Matilda, show her in! I'll get Mathieu."

"Right this way Mademoiselle," the old woman said.

I crossed the threshold and stepped into the foyer of thirty-four Champs Elysees.

"Please follow me," Matilda said walking me into a spacious sitting room. "My employers should be here momentarily."

I watched as the osteoporotic woman left the room and used the time while I was alone to marshal my thoughts.

_All right Mac, just keep your cool. All you have to do is ask a few questions, remember the answers and you'll be fine. Deep breaths, that's it. Ready Sterling? One two three go get 'em!_

I heard the sitting room door open and I turned around to see a tall, strapping man with ink black hair and quick nervous eyes entered, followed by a tall delicate woman with long curly brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

"Bonjour," I said advancing toward the couple and outstretching my hand. "Am I correct in assuming you are Monsieur et Madame Bellemonte?"

"Oui, je m'appelle Mathieu et ma fame Madeline," he said his voice soft and cultured.

"Je m'appelle Mackenzie," I replied. "I am sorry for barging in on you like this but I had no other choice."

"Believe me," Madeline Bellemonte said placing herself elegantly on the violet sofa. "From what I heard you tell Matilda, you're visit is greatly appreciated."

"May I sit?" I asked, indicating a comfortable looking armchair across from the sofa.

"Certainly," replied Mathieu Bellemonte. He sat next to his wife and took her hand. "Please ask us any questions you wish and we will try to answer them the best of our ability."

I smiled at the couple and sat in the armchair. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes, wondering where to begin. Finally, after a few moments of thinking I found a starting place. "I understand that last night the two of you attended the opera. Is that correct?"

Madeline nodded. "Yes, my husband bought the tickets as an anniversary gift," she said with a slight smile.

"We were married one year yesterday," Mathieu said rubbing his wife's hand affectionately.

"Congratulations," I said smiling at them. "I wish you both many happy years together."

They both smiled gratefully.

"According to Inspector Perrier," I said thinking back to our interview with him, "you were seated in Box Five on the grand tier. He also said that he had to turn you out twice for…" I paused and tried to think of the most tactful way to continue. "He had to turn you out for inappropriate behavior."

At my comment, Mathieu grunted in disgust. "Inappropriate behavior indeed! It was not our fault that some strange voice began laughing and making obscene comments throughout the entire first act!"

"Can you describe the voice?"

Madeline Bellemonte closed her eyes and leaned against her husband. "The voice was either that of a tenor or a baritone, I cannot be sure which. It was very musical and seemed to dull the senses."

Mathieu reddened at his wife's description. I think he was a little jealous of the dream-like tone his wife's voice took when describing the unseen presence. "It was a disembodied voice with a horrible laugh," he said shuttering at the thought. "It was not nearly as romantic as my wife makes it out to be."

"Was the voice a man's voice?"

The two Bellemontes nodded simultaneously.

"Do you remember anything the voice said?"

"Well," Madeline said quietly, "during act two, scene seven, when Elvira, who was played by La Carlotta, sang '_Ah! Not to leave me!__ Single, single in buio native place, palpitar the cor me feel, and m'it attacks a such fright that me it seems to die._' The voice laughed and said she sounded like a dying cat and someone should put her out of her misery. After that comment, the voice said he hoped we were enjoying the wretched performance from _his_ box."

I smiled and complimented Madame Bellemonte on her singing voice. "I am most impressed that you know the lyrics to Elvira's song."

She blushed and thanked me for the compliment. "I have seen the opera Don Giovanni many times."

"What did you do after the voice uttered the comment?"

"I immediately called for the box keeper! That wretched woman told me that we were sitting in the ghost's box and that he was extremely angry. Can you believe the nerve of that woman, to speak such childish nonsense to paying customers?" Mathieu said with a grunt of disgust.

"Yes, it is a rather odd comment for a box keeper to make," I said making a mental note of what was said. "Did anything else occur?"

"Yes," Madeline said, her face reddening slightly. "The voice once again laughed, only this time much louder. The house began to protest and the Inspector escorted us from the opera house. It was very embarrassing."

"An unfortunate situation for anyone, especially such a nice couple as yourselves," I said with a smile. Realizing there was nothing else I could learn, I decided to take my leave. "Thank you both very much for your time and cooperation. Sherlock Holmes and I will do everything in our power to discover the source of your discomfort."

Madeline and Mathieu looked at each other happily. "Thank you so much. Can you not stay for tea?" The former asked.

I shook my head. "I'm afraid not Madame," I said rising from the comfortable chair. "Au revoir!"

"Au revoir," they said escorting me to my waiting cab. "Bon matin!"

I waved farewell and gave the cabbie the name of the hotel where Holmes and Watson were staying. During the cab ride, I contemplated the information I learned from the Bellemontes. Unfortunately, it all seemed tangled and senseless. Hopefully Mr. Holmes could make more sense of it than I.

I was so lost in thought that I did not realize that I had arrived at my destination. The cab driver had to call to me twice to inform me of our arrival. After paying the rather expensive cab bill, I made my way up to room three-hundred thirty one to away Mr. Holmes's arrival.

"You look beat," Becky said when she opened the door and allowed me once again to enter the room.

"I'm exhausted!" I said stifling a yawn.

"Ah Miss Sterling," Dr. Watson said with a smile. "I'm glad to see you again."

"Doc, how many times do I have to tell you to use my first name?"

He chuckled. "For that you can blame my upbringing. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, but tired."

He smiled sympathetically. He suddenly noticed the absence of his best friend and long time roommate. "Where is Holmes?"  
I shrugged. "Last time I saw him, he was at the opera house. He sent me to 34 Champs Elysees to speak with the Bellemontes." I then told Becky and Watson what I learned at the residence of Mathieu et Madeline Bellemonte.

"What do you make of it?" Dr. Watson asked when I concluded.

"To be honest Doc, I don't make anything of it. It's all kinda confusing." I once again stifled a yawn. "If you guys wouldn't mind, I'd like to rest for a few minutes before Mr. Holmes returns. Time travel is exhausting."

Becky laughed. "You can say that again.

I turned to Doctor Watson. "Sir, would you mind if I rested on the sofa until Mr. Holmes returns?"

"Most certainly not," he replied quickly.

"Yeah but…"

"You will rest in my room."

I attempted to protest but he would hear none of it. Finally I relented and I lay down on his bed. When he left the room, after making sure I was comfortable, I stretched out. I must've been more tired than I originally thought because as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: A Screaming Match and a Surprise Visitor**

I was awoken sometime later by someone gently shaking me. Forgetting where I was, I didn't open my eyes. "Mom, wait tell you near the dream I had."

"Mackenzie, what are you talking about?"

My eyes snapped open and I blinked several times. When the last bit of sleep left my eyes, I focused intently on Sherlock Holmes's lean face. "Oh, sorry Mr. Holmes," I said with a slight blush. "I forgot where I was for a moment. What's up?"

He raised his eyebrows at my 'what's up' comment.

Seeing his expression, I grinned. "It's a twenty-first century saying that means how are you, or what's new?"

"Oh," he replied, not impressed. "What did you learn at the Bellemonte's?"

"What time is it?"

He consulted his pocket watch. "Nine o'clock."

"At night?"

"Yes."

"Wow! I slept for that long? What time did you get in?"

"Several hours ago, but Watson insisted I didn't disturb you."

I kicked the covers off and sat up. "You wanna sit or do you plan on standing?"

Sherlock Holmes pulled the chair from the desk next to the desk and sat on it. "Pray begin."

"On one condition," I replied with a sweet smile.

"What?" He asked raising his eyebrows skeptically.

"You gotta tell me what you learned first."

"I'll do no such thing," he protested.

"Fine," I replied, "then you're not gonna hear about the Bellemontes." For emphasis, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the wall in front of me.

"You cannot withhold information from me," Holmes demanded.

"Neither can you," I replied. "When you said I was your 'associate,' I expected to know everything you discovered. Until you starting sharing information with me, you will not hear anything that I learned. So you can either stay tight lipped and informationless or you can start talking. It's your choice."

Sherlock Holmes stared at me dumbfounded for several seconds. I don't think he could believe my audacity or the fact that I threatened the great consulting detective. Once he got over his shock, he, in his anger, got up from his seat and stormed out of the room. Knowing his thirst for knowledge, I began counting the seconds. In roughly half a minute, the bedroom door opened once again and the consulting detective was standing in the doorway, seething.

"I take if you've made you decision?" I asked sweetly.

"Damn you!" He growled.

"You know, you're kinda cute when you're totally pissed," I said with a smile. That would get him.

He glared at me and simultaneously raised his eyebrows in confusion.

"I meant you're kinda cute when you're angry," I amended using nineteenth century phrasing.

He grunted hotly and began pacing the room like a caged animal. "You are insufferable!"

"Well that's the pot calling the kettle black Mr. Holmes," I retorted. "That cliché saying means so are you."

"I'm insufferable?" He asked taking on the attitude of an affronted gentleman.

"And arrogant and misogynistic," I added.

"How dare you say such a thing! Am I not standing here attempting to speak with you?"

"You have one hell of a way of having a conversation," I said sarcastically.

"If I seem misogynistic, it is because of you," he roared. "You bring out all the worst possible qualities of your sex, you are conniving, extremely dense, not to mention manipulative--"

"One might say the same about you," I countered. "You're arrogant, condescending, self-centered, pigheaded, narrow-minded…roughly all the qualities in men that I despise. Henceforth the reason I'm still single."

"No man in his right mind endeavor to make love to you!"

"No woman in her right mind would allow you to court her!"

He stood in front of me, vibrating with fury. I was feeling the same anger as him but tried to hide it. After several minutes passed, I cleared my throat breaking the silence.

"We are not getting anything accomplished by screaming at each other," I said calmly. "I suggest we return our attention to the problem at hand. You tell me what you learned and I'll tell you what I learned. Truce?"

"What?"

"Truce, it means we'll stop fighting and act civilized toward one another."

"Truce," he replied.

"You go first," I said, making myself more comfortable on the bed.

"After you left the opera house," he mumbled between clenched teeth, "I demanded to speak with Madame Giry, the box keeper."

"The name is not unfamiliar to me," I replied.

He stood still for a few seconds and fixed me with an inquiring stare. "What did the Bellemontes say about her?"

"It's still your turn Mr. Holmes."

With a muttered oath, he resumed his frantic pacing. "I asked Madame Giry several questions and she gave me several interesting answers."

"What did you ask her? Come on sir; pray be precise as to the details."

"I asked her what happened last night. She told me that the ghost was upset. I asked her if she ever spoke to the ghost and she replied in the affirmative. I then asked her to describe the voice…"

"What did she say?" I asked leaning forward on the bed.

He ceased pacing and glanced at me. "Why are you so interested?"

"I wanna see if there's a match. Just keep talking."

"She said the ghost has a lovely man's voice which is soft and very hypnotic. According to her, the ghost is either a tenor or a baritone."

"Hmm…interesting," I murmured.

"I believe it is 'your turn,'" Holmes said settling down in the chair, his anger abating somewhat.

I quickly told Holmes everything that happened at the Bellemonte house. When I finished, he favored me with a quick, fleeting smile.

"You involved yourself in an altercation with an elderly woman? That is suggestive."

"So I take it I did badly?" I said utterly crestfallen. If the only thing he found interesting was the old woman, I must've done something wrong.

Sherlock Holmes removed his pipe from his dressing gown and lit it. After several long puffs, he looked at me over the stem. "No, on the contrary, you did quite well."

I was totally shocked at the offhanded compliment, especially after that huge screaming match. "You mean it?" I asked excitedly.

He nodded. "Yes, perhaps…perhaps I misjudged you."

"That's mutual," I replied. Suddenly, I was no longer angry with him. I think he felt the same way because the lines of rage in his face softened.

We were both silent for several minutes, each of us staring at one another, assessing each other's strengths and weaknesses. I think we each recognized a strong adversary and an even stronger friend in each other, but neither one of us knew how to get beyond the adversary to tap into the hidden vein of friendship. However, that was all about to change. Had either one of us been very observant, we would have realized this and recognized feelings and events which would forever change our lives and opinions of one another, but we were too preoccupied with the present to even think of the future.

He sat watching the smoke rings from his pipe chase each other up to the ceiling and I stared at him, wondering what made him tick.

_Could there be something deeper to this arrogant condescending man? Why did I tolerate his harsh treatment of me? If another person even attempted to talk to me the way he did, I'd slug them, and yet here he was calling me manipulative and here I was sitting across from him and he wasn't bleeding. Perhaps it's because he reminds me of…_

"Mademoiselle Sterling?"

His voice and the sudden gentleness of his tone, stirred me from my reverie. "Yeah?"

"Are you all right?"

"Sure, why?"

"Well, you've got something…" At a loss for words, he motioned for me to rub my cheeks.

This I did and much to my surprise, I found them wet with tears. I suddenly blushed. "Sorry," I murmured. "I was just thinking…"

"About your home?"

I nodded. Suddenly, for inexplicable reasons, fear wrapped its cold hand around my heart. My mind, which was so full of joy moments before was suddenly reeling with doubts and fears. _What if I never get home? What will happen to my family? Will he still be there when (if), I get back? Will he still…_

I shook my head in attempt to push those thoughts out of my mind. I glanced over at the detective, seeing him staring at me like I was some unknown specimen under his microscope that had to be closely observed in order to be identified.

"Ok, well now that you probably think you're in the company of a nutcase, headed straight for Bedlam--"

"What the devil are you talking about?" He asked, his tone was soft and gentle and his face was a mask of indifference. That put me on my guard slightly because I couldn't read any undertones in his voice or figure out what was going through his mind via facial expressions.

"Look, I'm friggin scared," I blurted out. "That's why I'm crying, does that satisfy your damned curiosity? No need to observe me any further, I told you what's going through my mind. You can put the dust cover back on the microscope; just don't forget to clean the lenses first! Friggin gawking idiot."

I knew that the words were unworthy of me, after they exited my mouth. Although we fought, he was extremely tolerant, allowing Becky and I to remain in his hotel room. However, I was totally tense, and on the verge of sobs and I didn't want him to see me completely loose it. Even as I spoke I could hear my voice break.

He stood and his face reddened ever so slightly. Without a word, he headed to the door. When I saw his hand on the door knob, I turned from him.

When I finally thought I was alone, I buried my face in one of the pillows, to muffle the sounds, and began to sob uncontrollably. Reality slapped me in the face at that moment, causing my body to shake with even more intense sobs. There was a very real possibility that I'd never get home and that thought scared me.

I felt a light brush of a hand on my back and then it traveled to my hair, caressing it in a hesitating, yet soothing fashion. Thinking it was Becky, I reached up and stroked the hand gently, in a sisterly fashion. Then the side of the bed sagged, caused by a person sitting on it. I was curious as to why my best friend was so hesitant to sit down next to me.

When I rolled over, intent on talking to my best friend and 'sister' I got the biggest shock in my life! Sitting next to me and comforting me was none other than Sherlock Holmes!

I gasped in surprise and he colored. He moved to get up, but I held his wrist.

"What were you doing?" I asked, wiping tears from my eyes with my free hand.

He cleared his throat, in obvious embarrassment and began to stammer. "I-I…well…I felt…re.-responsible…s-so…I didn't mean to offend…"

"No," I said interrupting him. "No, it was really sweet of you. You just caught me by surprise, that's all. Hell, you're the last person I expected to see…" I stopped talking when I realized I was making him totally uncomfortable.

We were both silent for several minutes, when suddenly I had the strangest urge to hug him. Much to his surprise and chagrin, I acted on my urge and threw my arms around this thin neck, burying my face in his shoulder and sobbing.

His body stiffened under my embrace and when I felt him completely tense up, I released my hug and stroked his hand, which was lying on the bed, clutching the bedspread with fear.

"Sorry," I murmured. "But thank you…thanks for being here for me. It means a lot knowing you care."

"Just one moment!" He said, once again taking on the attitude of an affronted gentleman. "I don't...I didn't mean…I didn't mean to imply any feelings--"

"Relax Mr. Holmes," I said, genuinely smiling for the first time that night. "I didn't mean your actions were anything but honorable, and I don't have feelings for you in that way, and I know you don't have feelings for me like that. I still think you're arrogant and misogynistic, but you do have a nice streak in you."

"And I still think you bring out the worst qualities in your sex, manipulation and density, but perhaps, you do have some redeeming qualities."

He favored me with an ironic smile, and I grinned back at him. He stood and headed to the bedroom door. "Good night, Mackenzie," he said softly. "We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Wait, what about Doctor Watson?"

"He's quite comfortable."

"And Becky?"

"She is also quite comfortable," he replied. "Good night."

"Good night Mr. Holmes," I said watching him exit.

When I was alone in the room, I attempted to look logically at the situation I found myself in. Unfortunately, I could find no solution for my time travel trauma so I said my prayers and closed my eyes. I fell into a fitful sleep.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: A Big Misunderstanding and I Start my Line of Investigation**

"You rogue you!" Were the words that I woke up to the next morning.

I opened my eyes and saw my best friend standing over me. "What are you talking about?" I asked rubbing sleep from my eyes.

"Last night," she said winking at me.

"What about last night? I didn't even see you."

"Roar!" She said with a laugh. She then jumped on the bed and sat next to me. "Don't be acting dumb. You know what I'm talking about."

I blinked several times. I sat up and stared into my friend's blue eyes. "Dude, what the hell have you been smokin'? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I saw you in his arms last night," she said with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Your head was against his neck, kissing him no doubt and his hand was on your head, strokin' your hair gently."

It took me several minutes to figure out what my friend was talking about. When I finally realized what she was insinuating, I busted out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Becky asked, confused by my outburst of laughter.

It took me several minutes before I could compose myself. Words from Holmes's and my screaming match kept entering my mind, causing me to laugh harder. When I was finally able to stop giggling, I wiped my eyes and attempted to explain.

"Dude, there's an explanation for what you saw."

Becky cocked her head and raised her reddish-blond eyebrows. "This should be good."

"Seriously, we weren't doing either of the things you accused us of doing."

"Like hell you weren't."

"Lemme finish! Mr. Holmes and I were arguing, talking about the case at hand and comparing notes in that order…"

"Yeah you were comparing notes all right."

"Seriously! I suddenly got home sick and Mr. Holmes was just trying to…to comfort me. That's all."

"Yeah okay," Becky said rolling her eyes.

"Man, I'm telling the truth! I mean, I don't even know the guy. You know me, and you know I would try anything with a guy I barely know. Secondly, even if I wanted to do anything, which I didn't, Mr. Holmes wouldn't be interested."

"Whoa! You mean he's…"

"No! God no!" I replied, interrupting her before she could speak what she was implying. "He is just a workaholic who thinks females are unlivable, untrustworthy distractions to his work."

Becky pretended to be satisfied by my answer. "So what are you and Mr. Stud doing today?"

I ignored her comment about the detective. "Mr. _Holmes_ and I aren't doing anything today. You and I, on the other hand, are going to explore Paris."

"Awesome!" My friend said with a grin.

That morning, I discovered that Watson managed to get Becky and me an adjoining room. We moved our stuff into the small room and continued to share the sitting room with the two men. Days turned into weeks and I barely saw the great detective. Occasionally we would give each other fleeting glances in the sitting room, but other then that, I rarely saw him. Watson, however became a close companion and confident. We took long strolls through Paris together and he became a father figure to me. For the first time in my life, I honestly felt like I had someone I could confide in.

One night, about a month and a half after our arrival into the Victorian Era, Sherlock Holmes and I were seated in the sitting room, in front of a blazing fire. I was the one who broke the silence.

"Mr. Holmes, what do you plan on doing tomorrow?"

"Well," he said once again puffing on his pipe. "I was thinking about interviewing Mademoiselle Daaé and le Vicomte de Chagny."

"Good idea," I replied with a slight smile. "Hopefully you'll find out a lot of information."

"Well, I was planning to do the interviews alone, but after learning that you have a knack for interviewing people, perhaps you would care to help me."

I'm sure my eyes lit up. "Hey, are you serious?" I couldn't hide the skeptism in my voice.

The consulting detective nodded. "Quite," he replied.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, finding myself surprised at his sudden change of confidence.

"You can question Mademoiselle Christine Daaé and report to me what you discovered."

"Cool," I said enthusiastically. "I promise I won't let you down."

Holmes nodded. "Yes well I trust you will not. Now, I suggest you get some sleep so you can get an early start tomorrow morning."

"All right, good night Monsieur Holmes."

"Goodnight."

Quickly I retired to the room I shared with Becky and fell into a dreamless sleep. The next morning I awoke earlier then usual. I completed my toilet before Becky awoke, dressed and hurried into the sitting room to find Holmes and Watson in conversation. When I entered the room, both men looked up.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said as I began retreating back into the bedroom.

"You're not interrupting anything," Dr. Watson said with a smile. "I trust you slept well."

"Yeah, pretty well, thanks."

"Are you hungry?" Watson asked.

I shook my head. "No thanks Doc. You gave me some money yesterday. I'm anxious to get to the opera house and speak with Mademoiselle Daaé. Once Becky is finished dressing, we'll be on our way. Thanks for the offer though."

Watson smiled at me warmly and then looked at his long time friend. "Well Holmes she's a miniature you. Doesn't worry about eating when there's a case at hand."

The detective favored his friend with a half-smile. "At least she's got her priorities straight, which is more than I can say for my Boswell."

I stood next to the great detective and called to Becky in the other room.

"I'm coming," she called back.

"Mackenzie," it was Holmes.

"Yes sir?"

"You know what you must do this morning, correct?"

I nodded. "Yessir."

Before he could reply, Becky walked out of the bedroom. Upon seeing me standing next to Holmes, she grinned wickedly. "I don't mean to interrupt," she said making sure I heard her sarcasm, "but I'm ready to go."

"You took long enough," I answered, trying to shrug off her undertones.

"Mackenzie."

"Yes Mr. Holmes?"

"I expect a full report when you return."

"Yessir!"

Bidding the two Victorian gentlemen farewell, Becky and I left their hotel room and walked outside.

"Where are we going?" My best friend asked.

"The opera house," I replied.

"Where's that?" She asked looking up the block.

"A few blocks away," I replied. "I think it's best if we walk."

"What in this cold?" She asked, wrapping her arms around her.

"It's not that cold," I answered. "It's only like forty degrees."  
"Let's just get a cab."

"We can't afford one."

"Didn't Dr. Watson give you money?"

"Yes, but obviously we have to ration it."

"What do you mean? I'm not walking to the opera house in this weather."

"Look Becky," I said growing tired of bickering, "I know you don't want to walk, but if you want to eat breakfast when we're done, I suggest you think about forgoing the cab."

With an irritated grunt, Becky consented and we walked to the Palais Garnier in silence. When we reached the front of the building, Becky stopped and gaped in amazement.

"Come on," I said gently tugging her sleeve. "We can't stand here all morning and admire Monsieur Garnier's handiwork."

Becky nodded and we stepped inside the Opera House. Once again, my friend was smitten by the beauty and splendor of the Grand Staircase. I called her name and began walking to the office of the managers.

When we reached the office, we were stopped by the tall, thin man with thinning reddish hair and gold pince-nez, who Holmes and I met several days earlier. I could not, for the life of me remember his name.

"Can I help you?" He asked his voice nasally.

"Oui," I said offering him a slight smile. "We are looking for Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Mademoiselle Daaé is not seeing anyone, nor am I going to tell you where she can be found," he said in his haughtiest tone.

"Prick," Becky whispered in my ear although she had no idea what the man was saying.

I had a hard time controlling my laugher.

"Monsieur…"

"Rémy," he said with an air of self-importance.

"Monsieur Rémy we are helping Monsieur Sherlock Holmes with a very important investigation. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated."

"I don't care who you are helping," Rémy said angrily. "I am not authorized to show you to Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room and that is final. Now, please go away."

_Ok buddy, if you wanna play hardball, then we'll play hardball._

I stared at the pompous secretary. "Where is Monsieur Richard?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I said. I took a deep breath in attempt to keep my temper at bay. "But Monsieur Richard will see me."

"I'll see about that," Rémy said standing. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't, but my name is Sterling, Mackenzie Sterling," I answered quickly.

Monsieur Rémy left and then returned a few moments later with a red-faced Monsieur Firmin Richard in tow.

"Bon matin, Monsieur Richard," I said with my most pleasant smile. "It is very nice to see you again."

"Mademoiselle Sterling, what is it that you want?" The manager, asked suddenly remembering me from our last meeting.

"I wish to speak with Mademoiselle Daaé. It is a matter of the utmost importance. I am sorry for bothering you with such a trivial request, but your secretary would not give me permission to converse with her," I said glancing at the Rémy smugly.

Monsieur Richard contemplated my request for several moments before answering. When he finally spoke, I was greatly relieved. "Rémy, I was in a very important meeting with Monsieur Moncharmin, a meeting to which I am anxious to return. Anything Mademoiselle Sterling or her associates request, you do your best to fulfill my needs. Do I make myself clear?"

Nervously, Monsieur Rémy nodded. Once his boss was out of sight, he rolled his eyes.

"You hear the man," I said triumphantly. "Tell me how I can reach Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room."

"I will escort you myself," the secretary said wearily getting to his feet.

I winked at Becky and the two of us followed the secretary through several winding corridors until we reached a small door near the end of a nearly deserted hallway.

"If you don't mind Monsieur Rémy," I said making sure my voice remained low enough not to disturb the diva within, "my friend and I would like to speak with Mm. Daaé alone."

With a slight nod, Monsieur Rémy disappeared the way we came. Once I was certain he was out of sight as well as earshot, I gently knocked on the door.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: I Meet Christine Daaé and Learn a Few Stories**

"Who is it?" A woman's voice called from behind the door.

"Mademoiselle Daaé?" I asked, hoping Rémy brought us to the right dressing room.

There was a moments hesitation and then she answered, her voice trembled slightly. "Yes, why do you want to know?" She said at length.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, my name is Mackenzie and I need to speak with you. May I come in?"

"Wuh-who sent you? Did he send you? Did he send you to spy on me?" The tremor in her voice intensified with anger.

"I was sent by Monsieur Sherlock Holmes," I said gently. "And I was certainly not sent to spy on you."

"You mean you were not sent by him?"

"Him who?" I asked, suddenly becoming frustrated. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I do not have the slightest inkling of whom you are speaking. Monsieur Holmes simply sent me to inquire about certain events that supposedly took place in your dressing room."

"Which events?"

I glanced from the door to my friend. I could see by her expression that she was quickly getting annoyed speaking to the diva from behind a closed door. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly shut it when I glared at her. I had to choose my words carefully and I did not need my friend making any comments, thus destroying the small rapport I was establishing with the singer.

When I did not answer immediately, Mm. Daaé repeated her question. "Which events?"

"It is my understanding, as well as the understanding of Mr. Holmes," I said summoning up enough courage to speak, "that a man's voice was hear in your dressing room."

The diva's voice suddenly grew indignant. "How dare you lie to me! I will not tolerate that! He did send you in the guise of some investigator…"

"Mademoiselle, if you do not believe I was sent by Monsieur Holmes, then who do you think sent me?"

There was silence, and I was about to voice my question again when she spoke, her voice much softer than before. "You mean you were not sent by Raoul?"

Quickly, I wracked my brain to place some significance to the name. _Ah yes, the Vicomte de Chagny, in Holmes's narrative. _"Mademoiselle Daaé if you mean Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, then you have no fear. I have never met nor spoken to the man."

The door slowly opened, revealing the pale green eyes of the singer, which looked at me with both surprise and unease. She stared into my face for several seconds before opening the door wide enough to admit me. Signaling for Becky to follow, I stepped into the dressing room and glanced around.

The first thing that grabbed my attention was a large mirror affixed to the wall opposite the door. I moved about the room slightly and noticed my reflection followed me where ever I went. "Wow, that's kinda freaky," I said suppressing a shudder.

Christine Daaé turned around and looked at me curiously. "What's freaky?"

I wasn't sure if she meant what I was referring to or my use of the word. I decided, although I'm most probably wrong, she wanted to know what I was talking to. "That mirror," I replied quickly. "It's just queer how your reflection follows you where ever you move."

_That phrasing should be better!_

Christine Daaé smiled tightly. "You get use to it," she replied. "It is very helpful when I am rehearsing."

"I'm sure it is. May I sit down?" I asked, indicating one of the few small folding chairs across from her dressing table.

Christine nodded and Becky and I sat next to each other. The diva glanced nervously at my best friend.

"It's all right," I said with a grin. "Elle s'appelle Becky. She won't repeat anything you say because she doesn't speak a word of French."

At my reply to her unspoken question, the diva laughed and the tense mood, which seemed to surround the diva, was lifted. When she laughed, her entire face lit up, making her look a lot younger than she really was. With one of her slender ivory hands, she pushed back her flowing blond hair.

"I must apologize for my earlier behavior," she said with a slight smile. "But I must be very careful, for mon ange does not want me speaking with Raoul or anyone associated with him. I do not mind Raoul's company, but it's just my angel…" her voice trailed off and a dream-like look came across her features. "Well," she said, suddenly realizing that Becky and I were in the room. "You certainly aren't here to listen to my problems. What can I do for you?"

Gently, I cleared my throat. "I mentioned earlier the strange matter of voices being heard in your dressing room. I was wondering if you could explain exactly what occurred."

At the mention of the voices, her faces clouded and her green eyes shone with anger. "Where did this Monsieur Holmes learn of this?"

I hesitated but not long enough for her to realize. "He was pursuing a line of enquiry and that matter just happened to come up."

"Do you promise not to repeat anything I tell you?" The singer asked dropping her voice to barely above a whisper.

Her request put me in a precarious position. I knew I had to inform Holmes of everything I learned and yet in doing so I would be breaking this girl's confidence. "I will hold my silence as long as I can," I said, hoping to elevate the sense of guilt I was already feeling because I knew I would have to break a promise.

She seemed to understand my predicament and began speaking. "When I was a child, I lived with my father who was a very famous violinist in Sweden. Father would play the violin and I would sing with his accompaniment. We traveled the countryside together entertaining people at fairs and other occasions. He was very fond of my voice, as any father would be. In fact, he once told me that I had the voice of an angel…"

"Mademoiselle," I said interrupting her narrative. "I fail to see what this preamble has to do with the strange even that I spoke of."

She favored me with a small smile. "You see, in addition to playing the violin, father would often tell me stories of the North. My favorite story was the story of Little Lotte. You have heard that story, haven't you?"

Wearily, I shook my head. Never having had much tolerance for childish conversation, I felt my patience slowly beginning to disappear. I clenched my teeth in effort to relax and fight back the words I wanted to say to this naïve singer. "Non," was the only word I allowed myself to get out.

She gasped in surprise. "Well I will tell it to you!" She said with childish enthusiasm. "Little Lotte was a young girl who thought of everything and nothing. She had a fiddle, many shoes and several dolls, but none of these things were very important to her. What little Lotte loved best was the night. She loved when she was asleep in her bed and the Angel of Music sang songs in her head…"

I raised my eyebrows skeptically. "The Angel of Music?"

"You poor dear! You have never heard of the Angel of Music?"

"No, should I have?"

"Every great musician, artist and writer receives a visit from an angel once in their lives. Sometimes, like in the case of Little Lotte, the Angel will appear when children are very young, producing child prodigies. Sometimes, if a child is bad, the angel will not come until they are older, and sometimes if someone has a wicked heart, the Angel does not come at all. The Angel of Music visits all great musicians.

'No one has ever seen the Angel of Music, but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. Usually, he comes when a musician least expects it, like when they are discouraged. Then, after the Angel's visit, a musician cannot pick up an instrument or open his mouth to sing without producing heavenly sounds.

'I asked my father if he ever heard the Angel of Music, but he never did. He promised me that when he was in heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to me, to guide my voice," she finished her story with such enthusiasm and her eyes shone so brightly, that I was forced to question myself whether my disbelief in angels was correct.

"Without sounding extremely rude," I said swallowing my annoyance, "why did you tell me about the Angel of Music?"

Christine Daaé smiled at me. "I knew you would ask that! Well, my father is dead and I have been visited by the Angel of Music. He gives me lessons right here in this room!"

"And I take it this angel is very strict?"

"Oh yes! He does not like me speaking with anyone, especially with Raoul," her voice suddenly was filled with sadness. "I do care for Raoul," she suddenly turned to me and seized both my hands in hers. Her voice grew wild with intense emotion. "I do care for him, and when you see him, please tell him that! Please tell him I miss him and enjoy his company, but I do not want to upset mon ange, because I'm afraid. I'm afraid my angel will leave me and never return if I disobey him! Please tell Raoul that for me!"

I gently disengaged myself from the diva's grasp and looked into her fear and pained filled eyes. "Mademoiselle, please try and calm yourself. If you care for this man and he cares for you, then I'm certain you have nothing to fear. I'm sure Raoul will understand your fears and will respect your wishes."

My words seemed to have a subduing effect on the diva. Her face softened and the tension somewhat dissipated from her body. "You really believe Raoul will understand? You will tell him how I feel?"

I nodded and averted my eyes from her honest face. My ears burned with shame because I lied to this innocent girl, filled her head with thoughts of understanding men and half truths. In my heart, I knew this Raoul would never understand and I knew I would never tell him her feelings, which made me, feel even worse. Even though she was my senior by several years, I felt more mature than she and felt terrible for lying to her and in a way erasing her purity.

"Oh thank you!" She said wrapping her arms around my neck in a friendly embrace. Her gratitude only succeeded in making me feel more like a sleaze-ball. "How can I ever thank you for telling Raoul how I feel?"

I managed a weak smile and pulled away from Mademoiselle Daaé. "You can answer just one more question. Can you describe the voice of your angel?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. "His voice is very hard to describe. He has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. It is so easy to close your eyes and forget the world, blocking everything out but that beautiful golden voice."

After hearing her description, something clicked in my mind, signaling a connection, but I couldn't quite figure out what was being connected.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, it was a pleasure meeting you," I said rising from my chair. "You have been most helpful and I look forward to hearing you sing."

Mademoiselle Daaé also stood. "Please call me Christine and thank you for delivering my message to dear Raoul."

Becky and I took our leave; my guilt was slowly gnawing at me. We walked down a long corridor without saying a word to each other. My mind was reeling, guilt of course was the prominent feeling, but curiosity was also inside there, rattling my thought process. Why did the description of the angel's voice trigger something in my mind? Was Christine really being visited by an angel or was it someone playing some type of prank on her?

"What the hell were you two talking about in there?" Becky asked angrily, interrupting my thoughts in the process.

"What?" I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance of my thoughts being stopped.

"You heard me. You have no idea how annoying it is not being able to understand a word anyone is saying around you."

I smiled absently mindedly. "I'm glad you didn't understand what was going on."

"Why?"

"Because you cannot control your laughter."

"What are you talking about?"

Instinctively, I lowered my voice. "Remember what Holmes told us about voices coming from Christine's dressing room?"

Becky nodded.

"Well, she said that the voice was that of the Angel of Music."

Becky looked at me and then began laughing hysterically. "That is defiantly the funniest thing I heard all day!"


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: An Adventure Gone Bad**

"Hey Becky?"

"Yeah?" She replied between gasps for air.

"You up for a little adventure?"

"I'm up for breakfast," she answered.

"I'm serious."

"So am I," she replied.

"We'll get breakfast later. Now, are you up for a little adventure?"

Becky nodded. "I don't have much of a choice, now do I? What are you scheming?"

"I want to go down to the third cellar and see where Joseph Buquet's body was found."

"The management is going to love that request."

"The management doesn't need to know," I replied mysteriously.

"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice trembling with nerves.

In all honesty, the plan was only somewhat hatched in my mind, but there was no reason for her to know I didn't think the entire thing through. "Didn't Richard say not to bother him?"

"If you say so," she replied uneasily. "Remember I don't understand French. But still I don't think what you're planning is a good idea. I mean what if something happens?"

"What could possibly happen?" I asked, knowing full well I was allowing my reckless and adventurous nature to outweigh common sense.

"Anything."

"What's the matter Becky, you chicken?" I asked, with enough challenge in my voice to dissuade her from not going along with me.

"No, I'm not chicken," she retorted. "I just don't see a need to put our lives in danger."

"Chicken," I repeated, knowing full well I was acting juvenile. Truth be told, I was scared to go alone and I knew if I bullied Becky enough she'd go with me. "What, you're suddenly scared of ghosts?"

"No," she countered. "Besides you don't even know how to get to the cellars."

I looked around me and noticed several doors. "One of these must lead to the basement."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're like Tom Sawyer, with all your stupid and unthought-out plans?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," I replied with a smile. "Come on, if I'm Tom, then you have to be Huck and you know what that means right?"

She shook her head. "No, what does that mean?"

"You've got to do whatever I say and go wherever I go just like Tom and Huck."

She groaned. "Me and my big mouth."

"Now come on," I said selecting a door at random.

"Wait a minute!"

"What now?" I asked, my sense of adventure growing.

"Won't it be dark down there?"

"Yeah, you're right. We need some sort of ligh…"

"A flashlight?" Becky volunteered.

I shook my head. "A good idea, but they haven't been invented yet. We need to get our hands on a dark lantern."

"Where are we going to find that?" Becky asked, a small ray of hope crept into her voice at the prospect of not having to venture into the unknown.

I said nothing for several minutes, attempting to figure out a way to go around the small obstacle that was blocking my path to satisfying my curiosity.

Suddenly, it hit me! I grabbed my best friend by the wrist and ignoring her curses and protestations, pulled her along until we reached the grand staircase.

"What are we doing here? We're leaving?"

I shook my head and motioned for her to be quite. _This Tom Sawyer had a good and practical idea._ I dragged my friend up the grand staircase and opened the door that was marked auditorium. I poked my head through the open door and spied several workmen on the stage, working furiously dismantling one of the elaborate sets that dominated the stage.

"Pardon moi," I said stepping through the door and dragging my friend behind me.

One of the workmen looked up; the rest ignored me and continued what they were doing.

"Bonjour," the workman said with a slight smile.

I approached the stage and got a better look at the workman, and couldn't help but notice his good looks.

"Bonjour," he repeated.

"Bonjour," I replied. "Do you know where I can find a dark lantern?"

He raised one of his jet black eyebrows. "Why do you need a dark lantern?"

"Monsieur Richard, wants moi et mon amie," I said motioning to Becky, "to go down into the cellars to get something."

The workman gasped. "Don't you know the ghost lives in the cellars?"

I chuckled. "Only if you believe such childish nonsense."

"Oh it is factual Mademoiselle," he said, his face suddenly grew grave. "Monsieur Buquet saw the ghost, and the ghost killed him. He went down into the cellars and he met his death."

"I'm sure there is a perfectly logical explanation for Monsieur Buquet's death," I said dryly. "However, we do not have time to discuss it now. The dark lantern, if you wouldn't mind."

The workman scratched his head and walked off, muttering something about how women should know their places. He returned some moments later carrying the lantern I requested.

"Here," he said handing it to me. "Do you know how to get to the cellars?"

I shook my head. "Non."

"Come along then," he said wiping his hands on his trouser legs.

Becky and I followed him to the right of the stage. We stopped in front of a door. "Open that door and you will see stairs. Take those stairs as far down as you need to go. Do not stay down there any longer than you have to and beware of the ghost."

I thanked the man and watched him return to the stage. I opened the door and crossed the threshold, closing the door behind us.

There was just enough light to see the stairs. I opened the cover of the dark lantern, which was thankfully lit and used it narrow beam to navigate my way to the staircase.

"Mac," Becky said, her hand closing tightly on my wrist. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"We've come to far to back off now. I'm not leaving here until I get a look at that third cellar. Now stop being a feeb and come on."

"I'm not being a feeb!"

"Then shut up and come on," I growled, pulling her forward.

When there were no more protests from my friend, I extricated myself from her grasp and began walking down the stairs.

We began our slow descent into the bowels of the opera house. By the time we reached the first landing, we were in nearly total darkness. If it weren't for the dark lantern, we would have been plunged in total blackness.

'_Bonjour! I have been waiting for you to venture down here! After your chat with Mademoiselle Daaé, I knew it wouldn't be long before we met.'_

"What the hell was that?" Becky asked grabbing my arm tightly.

I refused to admit the trill of fear the mysterious voice sent through my body. With the aid of the dark lantern, I looked around the cellar for the source of the mysterious words. All I saw were various used props lying around collecting dust.

_'Do you think it is wise coming down here, knowing it was my realm?'_ The disembodied voice asked.

"Mac, I really don't like this!"

_Neither do I! I'm scared to death right about now. In fact, if I hadn't been so adamant about coming down here, I'd be sprinting for the stairs as you speak. But no, I had to be the big brave adventurer! All right Mac, you've dug your grave, now lie in it._

I refused to tell Becky that I was wrong about venturing into the cellars unaccompanied, because I didn't want to face her ridicule and her 'I-told-you-so' attitude. "Look, we're only on the first landing. A few of the stage crew know we're down here, so I bet it's just them trying to scare us." _God, how I wish I believe those words!_

Before my friend could reply, the voice once again spoke, but this time with more venom. _'Mademoiselle, a very good guess, however you are incorrect. Another wrong assumption down here could be the death of you. I strongly advise you to turn back and return to the world of daylight.'_

I ventured forward, my knees trembling horribly. "I will not let some disembodied voice intimidate me! I came down here to see where Buquet was hung and that's what I'm gonna do!" My speech would have been really powerful if my voice wasn't shaking with fear. However, there was no way I could keep any feeling of pride if I backed out now.

Slowly, I began to inch forward, despite the darkness that was closing around me like water. The light from the dark lantern barely penetrated the heavy shadows.

After several minutes of searching, I finally found another staircase. Tentatively, I stepped forward and grasped the handrail. When I reached the second cellar, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I had the strange feeling that I was being watched, stalked like some kind of prey. I shuddered in spite of myself and fervently wished I had thought this plan out logically before embarking on it.

I jumped when I heard a loud crash, which was followed by maniacal laughter.

"Mac come on, let's turn back. I swear I won't call you a feeb!" Becky pleaded. It's still odd to me how your best friend can read your innermost thoughts.

"I can't turn back now," I said, filling my voice with determination. "We're so close!" In reality, I was to scared to turn and run back, because I didn't know what the mysterious voice would do if we tried to retreat.

I pressed forward and descended even further into the cellars. When we reached the third cellar, the voice once again spoke.

_'I must commend you on your audacity. Not many people ignore the Angel of Death's warnings. You and your detective friend will be most formidable opponents. If you are going to search for clues regarding Joseph Buquet's death, I leave you with a warning. If you search to hard or too long, a misfortune will befall one of you. Heed my advice and leave!'_

"What did he say?"

"He welcomed us to his world of night," I lied. I didn't need Becky to totally panic on me and that's what she would do if she knew the real translation of what was said.

"Okay genius, now that we're down here, what exactly are we going to do?"

I resisted the urge to shrug my shoulders. I'd think of something and quick. "We're gonna look around and hopefully, shed some light on how Buquet was killed. There is no way in hell that I'm gonna let some voice stop me from showing that I am intelligent, resourceful and totally worthy of Mr. Holmes's full confidence."

"Great, now is a swell time to decide to show up the great detective," Becky said, her sarcasm was laced with fear.

I lifted the dark lantern and held it high above my head, causing its feeble light to penetrate as much darkness as possible.

There were a lot of huge cobwebs and dilapidated bits of scenery strewn on the floor. The entire cellar reminded me of some type of strange graveyard, where sets were just disregarded and left to rot. The sepulchral silence increased my sense of feeling like I was in an old tomb.

My eyes, in their idle roving, fell upon a set that was precariously leaning against one of the cellar walls. A long piece of wood jutted out of it like, making it look eerily like a hangman's gallows. Thinking that was where Buquet's body could have been found, I handed Becky the dark lantern and strode purposefully towards it.

"Mac, stop, it doesn't look sturdy."

"Shut up and hold the light still," I said putting one foot on the bottom step of the false staircase. Being naturally stubborn, I disregarded all of my best friend's warnings and continued up the façade.

I was only three steps away from getting a closer look at the jutting wood. I raised my foot to mount another step when I heard Becky call out.

"Mac, stop!"

Before I could totally register Becky's shout, my foot was on the stair and the staircase gave way under my weight! I fell through the set, with several planks of wood falling on top of me. Once the avalanche of wood and metal ceased, I attempted to move, but to my dismay, I found myself painfully pinned against the floor. Searing pain ran through my body and the weight on my chest from the wood was making it nearly impossible to breathe.

"Mac!" I heard Becky shout my name. "Mac, where are you?"

I attempted to cry out to her, but I couldn't find sufficient breath to do so. I was already hearing a faint wheeze coming from my chest, indicating the beginning of an asthma attack and was steadily growing more nervous.

_Mac, deep breaths, come on Mac, you can fight this._

My mantra wasn't working and I could feel my airways constrict. I was in serious trouble!

"Mac! Mac! Where the hell are you? Come on, damn it! Stop playing around!"

"I…I'm…I'm over here," I managed to wheeze out. My chest grew tighter and the lack of air to my lungs was already making my head swim.

"Mac!"

I saw the light of the dark lantern nearing and I attempted to call to my friend, but all that exited my mouth was a strangled cry.

"Oh shit! Mac, are you all right?" Becky was standing directly over me and in the feeble light, I could see her face blanche.

"N-no," I wheezed.

"Asthma attack?" She asked nervously.

I attempted to nod.

"Where's your medication?"

"I…can't get it…help…me…"

"All right, all right just relax," she said making her way towards me. "Okay I just gotta move some of this...Shit! It's heavy! Mac, I can't move any of this lumber and metal off you!"

_I'm screwed! I'm gonna die here and it's all because of my stupid impetuousness_. "G-Get h-help."

"Help, yeah that's it! I'll get help! Okay Mac, keep breathing. I'll be right back I swear! Don't you die on me!"

"G-go!"

"I'll be right back," she said grabbing the dark lantern and running back the way we came.

Breath was becoming nearly impossible and my vision was quickly washing to black. I attempted to focus on breathing, but couldn't. If Becky didn't get back soon, I'd be a goner.

I don't know how long she was gone, for every minute seemed like an eternity, but when the last amount of strength seemed to leave my body, I heard voices. I saw the light of the dark lantern once again and saw the tall, strong figure of a man standing over me. Then, everything went black.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: I Find Myself in Confusion**

"Miss Sterling, Miss Sterling, can you hear me?"

I felt a stinging sensation in my throat and slowly opened my eyes to see Dr. Watson leaning over me. He brought a flask to my mouth and I gulped and sputtered reflexively.

I blinked a few times so Watson's face would focus more clearly. "Wh-"

"Don't speak," Watson said putting a finger on my lips to silence me. "Just try to relax."

I was dully aware of an intense pain on my right side as well pain from my left ankle. I took a deep breath, only to find it extremely painful.

"Where's Becky?" I muttered.

"In the sitting room with Holmes," Watson said with a slight smile. "You gave them both quite a fright."

"How did I scare Mr. Holmes?"

"When you and your friend didn't return from the opera house, we started getting worried. We went to the opera house to see if you were still there. Holmes and I were speaking with one of the workmen in the auditorium when we heard a loud crash from the cellar. Wanting to see what the noise was, Holmes headed down the stairs to find Becky, running toward him.

'She led him to you and he said you were barely conscious and barely breathing…he and Becky thought you were dead. When Holmes carried you upstairs, I was worried sick, mostly because your color was unnatural and you weren't breathing..."

Without thinking, I reached to my side to grab my inhaler, because my chest was still very tight. Much to my chagrin, it wasn't there. "Hey Doc," I said interrupting his speech, "can you ask Becky if she saw my inhaler."

Watson raised his eyebrows in curiosity. "You want me to ask her what?"

I was starting to wheeze again and was in no mood for ignorance. "Please, Doc, just ask her. She'll know what you're talking about."

He seemed reluctant to leave me alone, but did as I asked him. He returned a few moments later carrying my 'puffer' in his hand, like he was afraid of it.

"Here," he said handing it to me.

I took it and shook it. I took a few deep breaths, or rather as deep as I could without causing myself pain, and took the medication. In a few moments, I had relief.

"I daresay I do not know if I approve of such a device," Watson said eyeing the inhaler skeptically.

"Welcome to twenty-first century medicine. This gives you relief from the worst asthma attacks."

"How does it work?"

My body ached and I suddenly felt really tired. "Hey Doc, can I tell you later? I'm kinda beat."

"Good, that shot of landum, mixed with a small does or Morphine, I gave you is beginning to work." He got up from the edge of the bed and gently slid me under the covers. "Get some rest," he instructed. "You should feel somewhat better when you awake."

"Thanks a lot Doc," I said.

He smiled and left the room.

When I was alone, I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the arms of Morpheous.

"Hey dude, you feeling better?" Becky's voice brought me into wakefulness.

"Yeah, thanks man," I replied, my voice thick from drugs and sleep.

"You scared the shit out of me, you do realize that right?"

"Sorry dude."

"Yeah you should be. Doctor Watson said you managed to crack two ribs and sprain your ankle badly."

"Nice," I muttered. I blinked a few times and refocused on Becky's face. "Dude, thanks for the quick thinking with the inhaler. You know you saved my life."

"Hey that's what 'sisters' are for right?"

"Yeah. Hey what time is it?"

"Oh I don't know, around six o'clock I guess."

"How long have I been out?"

"A few hours. I wanted to come in earlier, but Doctor Watson wouldn't let me."

"Good," I said with a forced smile. "I needed sleep anyway."

Becky laughed and messed my hair affectionately. "Look I'm gonna go, I know Mr. Holmes wants to talk to you."

I groaned. _Great, now he's either going to chastise me for being stupid and never let me help him again, or he's just gonna laugh, saying I acted rashly. Neither one is very appealing at the moment._

"I thought you'd be happy to see him," Becky said with a mock innocent smile.

"Thrilled," I muttered.

Becky left the room and a few minutes later, the door was opened by a pale, visibly shaken Sherlock Holmes.

"Hey," I said quietly.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm in pain, but I'll survive," I forced another smile, this one I know was less convincing. "Look, I wanted to thank you. You saved my life."

He said nothing, he just stood staring at me.

_Well at least he's not going to start laughing. _

"I'm afraid I was slightly out of character," he said gently.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, by saving your life, you could say that I'm not a complete misogynist."

It took me a moment to realize what he was alluding to. When I did realize he was throwing my words from the night before into my face, I chuckled, but stopped when searing pain filled my body.

"I guess I proved that I was totally in character," I said glumly. "I mean, you're right, I am dense, how else could you explain the stupid stunt I pulled?"  
"You could call it an act of egotism," he volunteered.

"That doesn't sound much better."

There was something in his attitude that I found slightly unnerving. Despite the fact that he was extremely gentle and courteous, treating me with the utmost respect, there was something in his eyes that I could not read.

"There something on your mind?" I asked, trying to figure out what the suppressed emotion was.

My question seemed to take him aback. He seemed more fidgety after I asked him than before. "If it makes you uncomfortable you don't have to tell me."

"I daresay you are not very observant when it comes to recognizing emotions," he said quickly.

"Somehow I think you are just as dense as I in that field."

"On the contrary, although I may not express emotions and feelings very often, I can recognize them instantly."

"All right, so maybe I'm not perceptive. Is that a crime?"

"No, but it is vital to detective work."

My ribs were beginning to throb and I was quickly loosing patience with him. "Look, I simply asked you a question. Now you can deign to answer it or you can leave it left as if it were never said. At this point I really don't care which option you choose."

He said nothing for several moments and I once again felt like a specimen on a slide under a microscope. He then favored me with a rare, genuine smile. The smile lit up his entire face and my heart pounded again my wounded ribs.

Suddenly, for reasons I could not understand, I wished I was prettier, less sarcastic, more open to emotion, smarter…I suddenly wished I was one of those girls in my class who got pleasure in making fun of me, because my nose was always stuck in a book. Those girls that were beautiful and always got their man; the same girls I always scorned.

_What is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly wishing I was someone else? Why am I suddenly wishing to be like Amber? It must be the morphine._

"I think I should perhaps satisfy your curiosity," Holmes said, thankfully interrupting my thoughts.

"That'd be nice of you," I responded.

He took a deep breath and strode closer to the bed. Once we were only a few feet from each other, he lowered his voice.

"Your friend, told me what you said when you were going down to the third cellar of the opera house."

_What's he talking about? I wracked my brain to remember, but I could think of nothing that would cause Sherlock Holmes some distress. _

"I'm confused Mr. Holmes," I admitted. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

Once again he smiled, only this time I can only describe it as a Jeremy Brett half smile. "She told me that you said you wanted to show me that you were worthy of my confidence and that you were intelligent. What made you say that?"

"Heat of the moment I guess, and the fact that I wanted you to know that you can count on and trust me. Why do you ask?"

He was silent for a few moments and then admitted something that nearly made my heart stop. "I feel slightly guilty, like I caused your injuries. I know it is illogical but I cannot shake that feeling."

"Hey, look, don't worry about it. It was an accident and nothing more. You did save me, after all. You got a minute?"

"Yes," he said, returning to his former cold, calculating personality.

"Before I fell through the staircase, I did speak with Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Very good," he replied.

"This so-called ghost also seemed to know I spoke with her. When Becky and I descended into the cellars, this mysterious voice welcomed us to a world of night and mentioned my conversation with the singer."

I then proceeded to describe to Sherlock Holmes my conversation with Christine Daaé as well as my adventures down in the cellars. When I concluded, Holmes closed his eyes and leaned against one of the walls of the room.

"Interesting. What do you make of Mademoiselle Daaé's description of the voice she hears?"

"To be honest sir, I make nothing of it," I replied.

"I'm surprised," the detective said.

"Why?"

"Because you seemed so good at putting together chains of events."

"And what's that suppose to mean?" I couldn't hide my growing irritation.

"Allow me to make a connection, a connection that you should have seen."

"Go right ahead."

"The description from Mademoiselle Daaé mirrors the description given to you by the Bellemontes. So--"

"So the voice that belongs to Christine's Angel of Music also belongs to the manager's opera ghost!" I said excitedly, picking up on his train of thought.

"Correct."

"What did you do today?"

"Spoke with Raoul de Chagny."

"How did your interview with Monsieur de Chagny go?"

Sherlock Holmes gave a snort of contempt. "The young vicomte is intolerable! He merely pined about how much he loves Christine Daaé and how she is courting another man instead of him. Then he told me that Mademoiselle Daaé is leaving for Perros in two days and he has every intention of following her in order to make her fall madly in love with him.

'And Watson wonders why I have no use for love. It reduces men to blithering idiots and drives them to unspeakable acts. Humph!"

_Well you certainly have fixed opinions don't you? _For some strange reason I could not understand why I felt hurt at his dismissal of love. It was completely irrational and illogical. _Must be the morphine._

"Monsieur Holmes?"

"What?" He asked irritably.

"I have an idea."

"Good Lord, a woman thinking! A dangerous pastime for someone of your sex."

"Misogynist," I mumbled. "Anyway, as I was saying, I have a really good idea. Are you willing to listen to it?"

"I don't seem to have any other alternative."

I ignored his sarcasm. "You said that this Angel of Music and the opera ghost are one and the same right?"

The detective nodded. "Yes but--"

"Shut up for a minute and let me finish. I have a way we can learn more about this angel/ghost. You said Christine is leaving for Perros in two days and that Raoul is following her, correct?"

"Yes, please stop reiterating what I already know and state your case," he said irritably.

"Here's my plan. We accompany the lovebirds to Perros, incognito of course, and follow them to the graveyard. We listen to their conversation, and I'm certain, from what you tell me about Raoul de Chagny, he will bring up the matter of the voice heard in the bedroom. What do you think?"

The detective was silent for several minutes, considering my plan. Finally, he reopened his eyes and stared at me. "Perhaps…perhaps we should accompany them. Yes, undoubtedly Monsieur le vicomte will mention the voices."

"Where ever did you get that idea?" I asked caustically.

He ignored me. "We will have to go in disguise."

"Yeah I know," I replied. "So you think it is a good idea?"

He nodded. "Quite," he replied.

"Thanks," I muttered. I felt a blush rise from my chest to my cheeks at his compliment. I couldn't figure out why I was acting the way I was around him. I passed it off as the morphine and then decided it best to change the subject. "So, what's the game plan for tomorrow?"

"Excuse me?" He asked, not knowing what I meant.

"What do you plan on doing tomorrow?"

"I am going to the opera house. I arraigned for the management to give me a tour of the building, including the cellars. **You**," he said putting extra emphasis on the pronoun, "are going to stay here and rest."

I gently shook my head, causing it to swim. "Negative," I said forcefully. "I'm your associate and therefore I go where you go."

"Yes, but you're hurt and Watson thinks its best if--"

"Listen buddy," I said lowering my voice. "I'm not known to follow doctor's instructions to the letter, so don't expect me to sit here quietly while you go investigating, 'cause it aint gonna happen."

"We'll see," he replied. He suddenly moved toward the door. "You should rest," he said gently. His tone was once again gentle. "Watson, I'm sure is anxious to examine you."

I suddenly found myself wishing he would stay longer. I didn't want him to leave, I wanted to remain as close to him as possible. The feelings were totally illogical and I was struggling to hide them from the detective. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Uh, look, I might need help getting to my room. Would you mind?"

He once again favored me with the Jeremy Brett half-smile. "I will not go very far," he said exiting the room.

I was alone for several minutes, reflecting on the conversation I had just had with the great detective. I felt a range of emotions for the detective, from complete irritation to total hero worship. It was nuts! My thoughts however were interrupted by the sound of a distinct rap on the bedroom door.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Startling Revelations**

"Come in!" I called stifling a yawn.

The door was opened and Watson crossed the threshold.

"Well you look better," he said with a smile.

"I wish I could say I felt better," I replied.

He moved to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers. Quickly he examined my ankle and felt my sides, causing me to wince in pain.

"The swelling in your ankle has gone down a great deal," he said with clinical detachment. "However I am much more concerned about your ribs. I cannot be certain how much damage you suffered, nor if there are any internal injuries."

"Don't be overly concerned," I said smiling. "I'm almost certain that I didn't injure myself too badly. When will you allow me to walk around?"

Dr. Watson shook his head good humouredly. "God help me, I have another Sherlock Holmes on my hands."

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or insult," I said with a rye smile.

"In a medical sense, it is an insult," he said with a slight chuckle.

"But we're getting off the subject of my question," I said powerfully. "When are you gonna let me walk around?"

"I really do not want you to do yourself another injury."

"And that means what?"

"Since you are so adamant about getting up and walking about, perhaps I will allow you to stand and walk in about two or three days."

"Aww come on Doc!" I said miserably. "I can't lie around here for two or three days! You're sentencing me to death by boredom. In the US we have laws against cruel and unusual punishment."

"Right now Miss Sterling," he said with a smile, "you are not in the United States and further more, I am your doctor and you will do as I say."

I gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, fine you win! I'll stay here and suffer!"

"Good, he said giving my shoulder a slight squeeze. He turned to go and then hesitated. "Mackenzie, can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Sure Doc, take as much time as you need. I have all the time in the world, after all you won't let me move," I said raising my eyebrows sarcastically.

The doctor smiled, despite my sarcasm and I was once again reminded of his infinite amount of patience. When he spoke, I realized his voice was a pitch lower than normal, making me realize he didn't want anyone else to overhear our conversation.

"I am unsure of how to say this," he said softly.

"Just say it, don't worry about how it might sound. I can take anything," I said, instantly thinking the worst was coming.

Doctor Watson favored me with one of his sympathetic smile. "Do not worry Mademoiselle; I don't have anything terrible to say."

"Then what's the problem?"

He shook his head. "I just wanted to thank you."

"Thank me, for what? I've done nothing but been a burden to you and Mr. Holmes," I said completely confused.

Once again Watson smiled, putting his arm gently on my shoulder. "I want to thank you for the change you brought about in my friend. Holmes was on the verge of a black depression--"

_Great now he's making me feel like Mary Sue!_

"Somehow I don't know why you are thanking me for bringing a change over your friend."

"Let me finish, please. There are some things you do not know about my friend, and I think I should tell them to you."

"Go ahead," I said wearily.

"As I was saying, Holmes was on the verge of a black depression. He thought he reached the pinnacle of his career and the only place he could go from there was down. Injections of cocaine thrice daily were once again beginning and then the management of the opera house came to Baker Street and begged him for his help.

'At first he was hesitant, the case itself did not appeal to him, no interesting features were present. Nothing interested him any more--"

"You speak as though he was contemplating…" I allowed my words to tail off, not having the courage to voice the thought that entered both mine and Watson's mind.

He averted his eyes, realizing how close to the truth I came. "Even when we arrived in Paris, he was listless; all energy seemed to dissipate from his body and soul. I wanted to draw his attention to this, but I dared not, knowing how his temperament was in dumps like this, and since this was the worst one, I certainly did not want to speak my concerns aloud."

Watson's words captivated me. I had no idea why he was confiding in me; perhaps it was because he needed to get the emotions he was feeling off his chest, needed someone he could confide in. After all we were buddies who went on long walks together. But, even still I could not imagine why he would choose me, a girl of seventeen as his confidante. I didn't want to ask him, because I feared if I interrupted his words, he would never finish his statement.

"Several nights ago, he was in the foulest mood I had ever seen him in. He spent a good deal of time alone in this room; I can only imagine what he was doing in here. Most probably he was taking cocaine injections."

I could hold my curiosity no longer. "Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "You with his quick wit, your sense of humor and not to mention your extreme and occasionally biting sarcasm, you have brought a change to our lives, especially his."

"How?"

"Today," he said ignoring my question, "when he carried you up from the cellars of the opera house, I have never seen him so shaken. He was genuinely frightened. He has been pacing the sitting room floor all afternoon and continually asking me about your health."

I didn't see what any of this had to do with me and I told Watson.

"Don't you see? You've brought joy into his life. I know it sounds strange, considering you've only known each other for a few weeks, two months at most, but you've shown him, indirectly of course, that his life is worth living. He glows with pride whenever you praise him and he even chuckles when you insult him. He does care for you, but doesn't know how to show it. I don't know what he would have done if you were seriously hurt today."

I smiled at the words Watson just spoke. I felt extremely happy that the detective actually liked and possibly cared about me. (Although I thought Watson's deductions of Holmes caring were a little farfetched, but I didn't say that to him).

"Doc," I said staring into his green eyes.

"Yes?"

"What made you tell me this? I mean, hell, you don't even know me."

Once again he shrugged his shoulders. "I see the way you look at him. I thought it best for you to know where he stands."

"Huh? Please stop talking in bloody riddles!"

Watson smiled at me warmly and rumpled my hair. "When you're meant to understand my reasoning, you will. Now, I think I'd better leave and allow you to rest." He rose from the bed and walked to the door.

"Hey Doc!"

He turned and cocked his eyebrows quizzically.

I felt myself blush. "Between us, I can for him too. I care for both of you."

He nodded, smiled and left me alone with my thoughts. I stayed in bed for several minutes, turning Watson's words over in my mind. 'I see the way you look at him. I thought it best for you to know where he stands.' What was that suppose to mean? What did my glances at Holmes have to do with anything? I mean it's not like I was in love with the guy or anything…or was it?

I shook my head in attempted to eradicate the thoughts that just entered my mind. I was only seventeen and besides, my heart was reserved for _him._ The guy I stared at longingly everyday at school, the guy who played with my emotions like a song...the guy I hoped to make see how I feel and make him feel the same way. My heart was NOT for a misogynistic consulting detective. And yet…

_Mac, stop it right now! Christ! You're acting like a frigging eighty year old woman who lost the love of her life in the war. You are only seventeen! Your heart belongs to no one! Don't even start questioning what Watson said. Holmes doesn't give a damn about you and you know it. It's about time you begin to get that through your thick skull. Hell, how can he care about you when he's constantly deriding you? _

_And don't say he does the same thing to Watson 'cause he doesn't. Face it kid, he doesn't trust you or any other woman for that matter. Now I, being the rational part of your brain, suggest you shut your heart up and start listening to me. You've got to focus on this investigation and then figure out how the hell you're going to get home. Got it? Use your bloody intellect instead of you heart. Now get up, out of bed and go into the sitting room to see what the doctor and the detective are plotting._

I closed my eyes for a few moments and tried to end the battle between my brain and my heart. (At least I think it was my heart that was telling my rationality to shut up!) Watson could have been right about Holmes's feelings for me, but he also could have been wrong. After all, he never portrays himself as the most perceptive individual. I decided to push all emotions for Sherlock Holmes to the back of my mind until I could figure out what to do with them.

I hastily sat up and then instantly regretted my actions. I nearly doubled over in the sheer agony of my wounded ribs. I hissed in pain while muttering several curses, (all of which are too colorful to be mentioned here), and hugged myself tightly, attempting to ease the pain from my rash actions.

Once the agony subsided into a dull throbbing, I slowly climbed out of the bed and put my weight on my wounded ankle. Stupid thing to do! As soon as I stepped on my foot, my ankle gave way and I collapsed to the floor in a heap. I lay on the floor for several minutes, completely stunned. I didn't think my body could hurt so much. Tears welled up in my eyes and silently cascaded down my cheeks, but I refused to give into them.

My mind was set on leaving the room and that was what I was going to do. Clenching my jaw, I pulled myself to my feet and hobbled to the door.

"Damn this hurts!" I muttered as I put more weight on my ankle. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, I opened the bedroom door and crossed the threshold.

At the sound of the door opening, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson looked up at me. Holmes's eyes were filled with mild amusement and Watson's were filled with anger.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: A Bit of A Row with Watson**

"I thought we discussed--"

"Yeah I know Doc," I said with a forced smile. "But I couldn't stand the thought of you guys going off on an opera tour and me staying behind in this hotel room."

Sherlock Holmes stood and offered me his seat on the sofa which I accepted gratefully.

"Thanks," I said as I sat down. Unfortunately, the sofa was directly across from the chair Watson was occupying, and I was forced to endure a look of seething anger from the good doctor.

"Hey Doc," I said with my most disarming smile, "You really didn't think I would allow you to sentence me to a slow and painful death by boredom did you?"

My comment had the desired effect and Watson shook his head god humouredly. "What am I going to do with you?"

I smiled. "Put up with me," I replied. "Now, not that it is any of my business, but what were you boys discussing before I came in?"

The detective said nothing and lit a cigarette.

"You do know smoking is bad for your health right?" I asked, thinking of health class.

Holmes waved my comment away like it was some type of troublesome mosquito and took a long drag on the cigarette. "We were discussing tomorrow," he said simply.

"That doesn't tell me much," I replied.

"As I already told you," he said with irritability, "I have arraigned for the management to give us a tour of the opera house--"

"Cool! Can I come?"

Holmes raised one of his eyebrows sardonically. "Were you invited?"

"You said the word us, so I assumed you meant all of us."

"Perhaps I did, or perhaps I didn't," the detective replied coolly. "Besides, it is not my decision if you accompany me," with that he motioned towards Watson.

"Can I go Doc?"

"Most certainly not," he admonished. "Your ankle will not be able to support hours of walking. I told you I did not want you out of bed for three days."

"Yeah I know, but--"

"There are no buts, you are not going."

I looked at Holmes pleadingly, but he ignored me. _Figures he won't help me when I need him._

"Come on Doc, what's the worst that can happen I re-sprain my ankle?"

"A risk I do not want you to be taking."

I sighed. "Listen Doctor Watson, I do not mean to offend you, but somehow I disagree with your medical diagnosis. Perhaps the best thing I could possibly do is to be up and walking."

Watson gave a snort of contempt and once again shook his head. "Miss Sterling, there is no way you can win this argument. You will stay here tomorrow."

"I could climb out the window."

"What?"

"We're only on the third floor Doctor and I did notice a drain pipe conveniently located outside the window of Mr. Holmes's bedroom."

"He could and will lock the door to his room."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "You seriously don't think I'd pick the lock?"

Watson was about to reply, when Holmes's strident voice ended the argument. "Enough! I do not care if Mackenzie accompanies us or doesn't. I feel it is more important for us to discuss tomorrow's events instead of sitting here arguing."

"Well said Mr. Holmes," I said with a smile.

He ignored me once again. "As I was saying Watson," he said putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, "before we depart for the Opera House, we will first go to the train station and book passage on the first train from Paris to Brittany."

"Brittany? I thought we were going to Perros."

Sherlock Holmes chuckled at my ignorance. "The small town of Perros is located on the Brittany Peninsula."

"Oh," I muttered.

"Brittany is mostly--"

"Please, I don't need a geography lesson," I said, my ribs beginning to ache. "I simply asked a question, and I don't need a three hour answer complete with maps and charts."

"Hmph!" Holmes said with irritation. "Next time, perhaps I will not respond to your questions if you do not like my answers."

"Maybe that'd be a good idea Monsieur," I replied. Suddenly I felt guilty for what I said. Holmes was after all, answering my question. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound evil."

The detective made no reply and I wasn't sure if my apology was accepted or not. The three of us sat in the sitting room, discussing various things, my plea to Watson to let me go with them certainly came up numerous times. Finally, after I explained calmly and coolly the possible ways I could escape from the room (not that I was capable of doing any of the things I told him, I mean I'm afraid of heights, I can't pick a lock to save my life, I can't climb down a drainpipe, he didn't need to know any of this of course), he finally consented to allow me to accompany them.

It was roughly ten o'clock when Holmes reminded us that we had better get to bed because of the hectic day ahead of us. I smiled at both men and bid them goodnight, my animosity toward Holmes was already beginning to diminish.

I hobbled into the bedroom I was sharing with my best friend and saw her stretched out, full length on the bed, flipping through the pages of a book.

I nodded to her and went into the bathroom to change into the night clothes Watson had bought me. When I returned to the bedroom, Becky shoved her book aside and sat up, watching me like a hawk.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: Another Side to Becky**

"What's your problem?" I asked, settling down on my bed.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Nothing at all."

"Then why are you staring at me?"

She shrugged her shoulders and I knew something was bothering her.

"Come on dude, you can tell me what's on your mind."

She sighed. "I was thinking."

"Shit, that's scary," I said making my voice light.

"I'm being serious! If you don't want to talk--"

"Sorry! I didn't mean to offend you," I said with a mollifying smile. "Go ahead; tell me what's on your mind."

"Well I was thinking about this whole time travel thing," she said, her words slow and deliberate.

"What about it?"

"Well, what do you think is going to happen when we get back, I mean if we get back," she said, her voice filled with utter sadness.

"Don't worry, we'll get back," I said quickly. "What's gonna happen, well I can't say for sure. I mean no one is going to believe us."

"I bet our families are worried sick about us."

"If they're still around," was my reply.

She sat bolt upright and stared at me with panic-stricken eyes. "What are you talking about?"

I sighed and wished I never voiced my thoughts. "I read a book one time," I said choosing my words very carefully, "and in that book they mentioned time travel. The book said a guy when back in time to a magical cave for an hour and when he returned, it was a hundred years later and all his friends and family were gone."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," she said sadly. Tears were starting to fill her eyes and she started yelling at me. "This is all your damned fault, you do know that right? I mean you had to be the one that agreed to help Holmes with his case instead of looking for a way to get back home! And now, after you dragged me into this, you nearly scared me to death and you're still acting nonchalant. Don't you care at all what happens to us? Don't you even care what happens to our families?

'I mean come on Mac, you're always so cold, so unfeeling! You don't give a damn what happens to anyone else but you. If it doesn't suit you then it's not suitable for anyone. You are like a god-damned dictator! Do this, do that! I'm sick of it Mac! I'm sick of it! I hate you! All right? I fucking hate you!" She finished her shouting with a sob and buried her head in her pillow.

I was completely taken aback by her words. She had never spoken to me like that before, no one had. Her words cut me deeply, especially when my best friend since the third grade, my 'sister' just said she hated me. I felt a blind rage slowly building up within me and I took several deep breaths in effort to calm it. My vision was very slowly beginning to turn red, as it always does when I get really angry, and my hands shook with rage.

"You hate me? Fine! Go right ahead and hate me! I don't need you, I don't need anyone! You think I'm self-absorbed? Maybe it's because I'm constantly surrounded by imbeciles like you! Oh Mac, what will happen to our families? Oh Mac, what will happen to us? Do you think I have all the god-damned answers?

'Christ! I don't know what's going to happen, all right? The only thing I know is we're stuck here, together, and there is nothing we can do about it at the present moment. If you stopped whining for once in your god-damned life, then maybe we could find a logical way to get out of this! But no, you are content to sit there and sob, waiting for anyone to comfort you and tell you that you're a good little girl.

'Have some backbone for Christ's sake!" I finished my statement vibrating with fury. My fists were clenched into tight fists and a thin trickle of blood was running down my hand from where my fingernails were biting into the flesh.

Becky and I sat staring at each other for several minutes in silence, attempting to control our emotions. She was the first to break the silence.

"Hey Mac, look I…I'm sorry. I don't hate you, and I don't know what made me say that. It's just that you're so damned cold sometimes."

"Yeah well, the only reason I'm cold is because I'm scared. Admitting fear shows vulnerability and vulnerability will only keep you from accomplishing what you want. I'm sorry for what I said too, but I mean hey, I was provoked."

"Let's make a deal all right? We don't fight like this ever again. Deal?"

"Deal," I replied with a smile.

"So Mac, what do you think about this whole time travel deal?"

I shrugged; my temper was slowly beginning to subside. "I don't know I kinda like it here in Paris. The company is great and the problem at hand is really interesting."

Becky smiled, her smile spoke volumes, many of which I chose to ignore. "You sound like you're not anxious to leave. Why?"

"Well," I said attempting to make myself comfortable, "this is like a dream come true for me. I mean come on; I'm helping one of my literary heroes solve an awesome case. Why would I be in a hurry to get home?"

"I don't know! It all seems so unreal to me."

"I don't think something like this has ever happened to anyone before, at least not outside of fiction. Oh well," I said stifling a yawn. "I think we'd better get some sleep. Holmes said we have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."

"How are we going to solve the mystery?" Becky asked, not taking the bait.

Once again I shrugged. "Can't answer that one," I replied.

"I wanna see who this voice belongs to," my friend replied.

"So do I."

"You know something?"

"Damn, you're talkative tonight. What is it?"

"It's kinda weird."

"What is? Stop talking in god-damned riddles!"

"It's weird how Holmes treats you like shit and you still like to spend all that time alone with him."

I was thankful Becky was staring at the ceiling because she could not see the fierce color red my face became. "Look, mind your own damned business! My feelings for Sherlock Holmes, whatever they may be, are from this moment on, completely off limits. Got it?"

"Yeah," she said using a drawl that not only grated on my nerves but also let me know that this discussion was far from over.

"Besides," I said, wanting to rectify Becky's earlier statement, "Holmes does not treat me like shit. He is very kind and a gentleman. So is Doctor Watson."

"Doctor Watson is a total nice guy," Becky said, "but I still don't think Holmes treats you with any respect."

"Look, can we just drop it please?"

"Maybe," she said with a stupid lilt in her voice.

"Listen, I'm tired, I'm in agony and I'm not in the mood for sarcasm. I'm going to bed, good night," I said, extinguishing the gas lamp over my bed and turning over on my side.

"Good night," Becky replied.

After several minutes of pondering the day's events, I fell into a restless sleep.


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: Oh What a Beautiful Morning **

I was awakened some time later by a loud rap on the bedroom door followed by Holmes's strident voice informing us it was time to get up.

Becky groaned. "What time is it?"

Before I could answer, Holmes burst through the door, dressed elegantly in a black tweed suit, complete with gloves and a top hat. "It is five o'clock," he said. He proceeded to turn up the gas until the room was completely illuminated.

I squinted against the bright light. "You're quite the morning person, aren't you?" I asked sarcastically.

He raised his eyebrows and a slight chuckle escaped his lips. "There is nothing like Paris in the morning. Now, get up and dress quickly, we have much to do today."

I yawned. "Yeah, all right, whatever you say. Now, if you would please get out so we can get dressed…"

"I will be back in ten minutes' time to make sure you ladies are up and dressed," he said.

"You are positively insufferable in the morning, do you know that?" I asked with feigned annoyance.

Something akin to a smile passed across his face, but it disappeared so suddenly that I couldn't be sure if it was real or imagined. Quickly he left the room.

When he had gone, Becky looked up at me; sleep still clung to her eyes. "Do we have to get up?"

"I'm afraid so," I said cautiously getting to my feet. Much to my relief, both my ribs and my ankle felt much better.

"How's your foot?" Becky asked, throwing the blankets off.

"A lot better, thanks," I replied, carefully walking around the room. "I can put more weight on it."

"That's good," she said stifling a yawn. "That's really good."

I decided that my friend would not successfully rouse herself for a few minutes, and took the opportunity to complete my toilet.

Becky watched with mild amusement as I carefully pulled on my jeans . "What are you doing? We're not home remember," she said.

"I know," I said grabbing a cream colored dress with a touch of lace at the throat and wrists. It covered the jeans beautifully. "We're doing a lot of walking today, and I want to be comfortable. You can't even tell I have pants on."

"Good idea," she said with a laugh.

"I suggest mon amie, you get dressed and stop laughing at me. While you dress, I'll see what Mr. Sunshine is up to."

Becky laughed at the name I used for Holmes. "I'll be ready in a sec."

"I've heard hat before," I said hobbling to the sitting room.

I looked at the couch and tried extremely hard to stifle my laughter. Watson was on the sofa wearing an unbuttoned stripped pajama top and open dress pants, his eyes were closed and he was snoring softly even as his right hand clutched one of his shoes.

_Poor guy's not a morning person either. He must've fallen asleep as he was putting on his shoes._

Just as I was about sit next to Watson, Holmes walked in the room whistling a tune that was unknown to me. Catching his eye, I motioned for him to be quiet and gestured to the sleeping doctor.

With an impish smile, Holmes walked over to Watson and gently shook him by the shoulder.

The doctor groaned and slowly opened his eyes and blinked several times to focus. "Holmes, what the devil?"

"Watson," the detective said in measured tones, "somehow I believe you will attract quite a few stares if you are truly going to venture out in that outfit."

Watson looked down at his clothing and then at me. His face grew bright red. "I…I am planning to change…" he said, stammering in from embarrassment.

Holmes laughed good humouredly. "All right old boy! Go and make yourself decent for God's sake. I'm in a hurry to leave," he said.

Without a word, Watson retreated to his bedroom.

"That wasn't really nice," I said.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and lit his briar pipe.

"Smoking at this hour? Damn you're a nicotine fiend."

He raised his eyebrows, not knowing what I meant. "Yes, well a pipe first thing in the morning made from yesterday's plugs and dottles helps the thinking process. Why am I explaining this to you? You have no business asking me about my habits."

"My apologies," I murmured sitting down. I had just woken up and was in no mood for his sarcasm.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, turning around to face me.

"Much better, thank you," I replied, attempting to get use to his chameleon-like moods.

He nodded. "Good. Your ankle…"

"I can walk if that's what you're asking."

Once again he nodded and we lapsed into a comfortable silence. I stared at him, surprised by the amount of energy he had in the morning.

He caught my gaze and I blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare," I murmured.

He raised his eyebrows, signaling for me to explain myself.

"I just surprised at the amount of energy you have in the morning. I mean it's crazy!"

He flashed me a very brief smile. "Nothing exhausts me when I work, but idleness exhausts me completely."

"I wish I could say the same," I said stifling a yawn. "I'm certainly not a morning person, so if I seem evil, please excuse me."

He said nothing and busied himself by taking long pulls on his pipe. Although he appeared outwardly calm and collected, I could see in his eyes, which were shining brightly and his constant need to keep himself moving, that he was a bundle of nerves and excitement.

I decided to talk to him about the investigation before he could start pacing. "So, do you think we'll discover anything at the opera house?"

He shrugged and peered at me over the pipe bowl. "I do not like to theorize before I have data."

"Yeah, that's right, how did I forget. When are we going to book passage on a train headed for Perros?"

"Before we go to the opera house," he replied.

I was about to reply when Becky strolled out of the bedroom, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Good morning," she said yawning.

"'Morning," I answered. "You look totally hot."

"Go jump off the nearest bridge and drown in the nearest river," she replied testily. "I look a mess."

I pretended to look her over critically. "Nah, I've seen you look a lot worse."

"Mac, read between the lines," she said holding up three fingers in my direction.

"I beg your pardon, but what is that suppose to mean?" Holmes asked.

I laughed at his nineteenth century ignorance. "Forget it Mr. Holmes. I don't feel like explaining the many ways of insulting people of the twenty first century this early in the morning."

"I think I should teach that lesson," Becky said smiling broadly. "I've told off more people then you can imagine."

"Trust me, I know," I replied. I returned my attention to the detective who was watching the exchange between me and my friend like a small child watching monkeys at the zoo. "When are we leaving?"

"As soon as Watson is ready," he replied quickly. "Watson!" He shouted.

"Coming Holmes," came the doctor's reply. A few moments later, he joined us in the sitting room, clad in a grey tweed suit accompanied by a black bowler hat. His eyes still held the remnants of sleep, but he was in good spirits. "Is your ankle all right?"

I nodded. "I can walk on it, although my walk is little more than a limp, but," I said raising up a hand before Watson could protest, "I am quite capable of walking around for hours."

"So long as you are able to walk," he answered. "Breakfast at the hotel restaurant?"

"Sounds good to me," I lied. The thought of food at five o'clock in the morning was enough to make me positively ill.

Holmes interrupted our conversation by clearing his throat, and opened the door for us and we walked to the hotel restaurant. There, Holmes ordered us several French pastries and four mugs of hot tea. We ate in silence, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts.

I was too excited to really eat. My thoughts kept returning to my adventure at the opera house and I was more curious then ever to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Once we finished eating, Holmes paid the bill, brushing my protests aside by bluntly reminding me that I had no money and we were rattling off in a four wheeler to a destination known only to the great detective.

The cab stopped and I glanced out the small window, realizing we were at a train station.

"Weird way to get to the opera house," I said sarcastically.

Holmes ignored me and he and Watson alighted from the cab.

"Where are they going?" Becky asked.

"I'm not a psychic, but think it's safe to assume they are getting train tickets."

"Smart ass."

"Yeah I know."

"You seem rather touchy this morning."

"Sorry, but I'm tired and in pain."

Further conversation was denied when Holmes and Watson returned to the cab; four train tickets were peeking out of Watson's coat pocket.

"Nous voulons aller a Palais Garnier!" Holmes called to the cabbie.

The cabbie whipped up the horses and we were off to the Paris Opera House.

When the cab stopped outside the magnificent building Holmes paid the driver and we followed him into the main hall, where Messurs Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin were waiting for us.

"Bonjour," Moncharmin said offering his hand to Sherlock Holmes. "C'est trés agreeable fimalement pour vous rencontrer."

"Le plaisir est toute mon," the detective replied with a cordial smile. He introduced us to the management and when the pleasantries were completed, Holmes turned his attention to the problem at hand. "You have arranged for us to take a tour of the opera house, have you not?" Holmes asked in French.

The managers nodded simultaneously. "Oui, Monsieur Gilles Beaufort will give you a tour of the above ground portions et Monsieur Isidore Vasser will take you into the cellars," Richard said forcefully. He then turned to his partner. "Armand, apporte Monsieur Beaufort ici maintentant."

Monsieur Moncharmin quickly disappeared. He returned, some minutes later, with a towering man, with massive oarsman's shoulders and ballooning biceps. His dark hair was beginning to recede and his sapphire eyes searched our faces. He was unkempt, which was made obvious by the disheveled appearance of his Roman T beard.

"Bonjour, je suis Gilles Beaufort," he said, his voice rasping. He extended one of his work-swollen hands to whoever would take it.

"Bonjour," Holmes said, taking the man's hand. He then proceeded to introduce us to Monsieur Beaufort.

Beaufort nodded to each of us in turn. Once the introductions were complete, Beaufort offered us a toothy grin. "If you are ready, we can begin the tour of l'opera populaire."

Holmes nodded and we followed Monsieur Beaufort into the auditorium. The first stop on the tour was the stage. I looked out at the vast auditorium, imagined it completely filled and a shudder ran down my spine. Although I was use to performing in various school plays, the thought of acting on such a huge stage, in front of so many people was enough to give the most season actor a touch of stage fright, and I was certainly no exception.

I heard a slight chuckle and spun around only to see Sherlock Holmes smirking.

"What?" I asked, my voice defensive.

"Fear not Mackenzie," he said with a slight smile. "You do not have to perform on such a stage."

"Yes Mademoiselle," Beaufort said gently, "many people get nervous the first time the trod the boards."

"I wasn't nervous," I lied. "Seriously, I was just looking out into the auditorium."

Watson smiled at me and chuckled. "I could never be an actor," he murmured.

"No old boy, I do not believe you are a candidate for the stage."

Monsieur Beaufort interrupted the exchange between the two friends by directing Sherlock Holmes's attention to the footlights. "There Monsieur, are the footlights. These lights help illuminate the stage and can create some interesting effects. Although the limelights are the true stars of the opera."

I must admit the thought of listening to the gravelly voice drone on about the intricate workings of electrical equipment was enough to totally bore me. In attempt to find something to focus my mind on, I began to idly glance around the auditorium once again. However, this time, my eyes traveled around the lower seating area. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadowy form moving.


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: The Persian**

I quickly looked around and noticed the form was a man, dressed oddly in long flowing robes and wearing a strange hat. Although the seats were mostly in shadow, I could make out his dark complexion and the menacing stare he was fixing us.

"Hey Holmes," I said tugging at his sleeve. Courtesy was not foremost on my mind, hence the reason I omitted the 'Mr.' from the front of his name.

He looked at me angrily, not happy that I called his attention away from Monsieur Beaufort. "What is it?"

"Who's that guy in the funny hat?" I asked pointing to the strange man.

Holmes followed my gaze until his eyes caught the object of my attention. "This is most curious," he said, his angry quickly dissipating.

"What's 'most curious?'"

The detective ignored me and turned his attention back to the guide. "Monsieur Beaufort, who is that man in the astrakhan hat? His gaze is most hostile."

Beaufort smiled uneasily as he searched his mind for the answer to the detective's question. "He is known as the Persian," he said, speaking the name with venom. "He seems to lurk around in shadows as much as le Fantomé. He never speaks to anyone and he leers at the girls of the corps de ballet. His gaze is so devilish--"

"All right," Holmes said placing a hand on our guide's broad shoulder. "I'll look into the matter of the Persian. Now, getting back to the footlights…"

The voices of the men droned on in my ears, their words jumbled together making no intelligible sounds, save for background noise. My attention remained on the Persian, and I suddenly had the urge to learn more about him.

I glanced at both the detective and the doctor and happily noted that they were both enthralled with the conversation. I smiled to myself and then glanced at my best friend, who looked at me, her stare that of intense boredom. I put my finger to my lips. She cocked her eyebrows in confusion and I mouthed for her to be quiet. I cast one more glance at Holmes and then slipped away from the stage, keeping one eye on the Persian at all times.

He suddenly began moving away from the stage at a rapid pace. I increased my speed, hoping to catch up to the man I was pursuing. I knew I was running on very thin ice because I knew my ankle could give way at any moment.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the man I was pursuing, I increased my speed until I was almost at a run. The Persian seemed to be taunting me, always keeping a few steps ahead of me. He exited the auditorium only a fraction of a second before I did. I chased him out onto the street until he stopped in an alleyway a several blocks from the Opera House.

I stood at the entrance of the alleyway, panting and wheezing. Both my ribs and ankle ached horribly but I tried my best to ignore them. My eyes scChristined the ally, attempting to penetrate the shadows and catch some glimpse of my antagonist. Unfortunately, the shadows were so deep that I was unable to see anything. For the first time in my pursuit I wondered if I had made a mistake following him here alone. For all I knew, he could be armed and dangerous.

_Don't be a feeb! You've come too far to chicken out now. Just go into the alleyway and see if he is there. If not, then you've got nothing to worry about._

I tentatively stepped into the alley. My body was tense with fear and my palms were slick with sweat. _Just relax, just relax, everything is cool. There's no one here, save you. _How I wished I could believe that! I continued hobbling slowly, deeper into the alleyway. When I was about halfway through it, I let my guard down. Big mistake!  
No sooner did I allow myself to feel safe, I felt a great weight on top of me and I went sprawling to the ground. I yelped in pain and struggled to get my assailant off me, but to no avail. I was no match for the Persian. We struggled for several seconds, when he pinned me to the ground and held a long dagger with a jeweled hilt against my throat.

I struggled to breathe, but the pressure of the dagger felt as though it would collapse my windpipe. "W-wh…what do yuh-you wuh-want?" I stammered fear flooded my body, completely paralyzing me.

The Persian smiled and for the first time, I saw a large scar that ran the length of his left cheek, pulling back his upper lip into a perpetual snarl. "I would love nothing more than to kill you," he said in heavily accented French. To emphasize his point, he pressed the blade harder against my throat, causing a trickle of blood to run down my neck.

"W-why?" I asked, hoping to buy myself some more time. It was not my intention to die at seventeen years of age in nineteenth century Paris at the hands of some madman who had an unknown grudge against me.

"You have the nerve to ask why?" The Persian said with a rough laugh. "Well before I kill you I suppose I can humor you."

"Very noble of you sir," I squeaked. I was completely terrified. I couldn't fight him if I tried. The reality that I was going to die hit me hard.

"You and your friends are meddling in matters that are too complex for you to understand. The Phantom of the Opera is not a man to be angered and you have angered him. If I shed your blood, perhaps that intrusive detective will put an end to his investigation, before more people loose their lives."

The thought of being a sacrificial lamb did not appeal to me. There had to be someway to get out of this, I knew there had to be someway I could escape with my life. I just had to bide my time and think of some plan of action.

"You seem to know a great deal about this mysterious phantom. Why don't you tell me what you know about him? It can't hurt, since I am going to die at your hand."

The Persian pondered my request for several seconds and an idea began to formulate in my mind. If I could just keep him talking for a few more minutes…

"What I can tell you is that it would be best if that detective stays away from him. He has interests in Mademoiselle Daaé that you and I cannot comprehend. It is my job to protect him; I made the vow to be his conscience and protector long ago. Anyone who poses a threat to him, I remove them."

"Do you really think that I, a seventeen year old girl, am a threat to le Fantomé de l'Opera?"

My question seemed to stagger the Persian, which gave me enough time to get my wrist out of his vice like grip. Once my arm was free, I positioned it directly under his hand that held the knife. I held my hand in place and waited for the right time to strike.

"No, you are not a threat to le Fantome, but your detective friend is another matter. I have wasted too much time talking. Pray to Allah that he will save your soul."

He raised his hand and started to bring the blade across my throat when, I, with my free hand grabbed his wrist and jerked it away from me.

This action stunned him and he half rose, giving me a chance to roll out from underneath him.

An almost primitive sound escaped from his throat as he lunged at me, dagger wielded. I rushed toward him and rammed into his chest full force, causing both of us to fall to the ground. When he hit the ground, the knife he was holding clattered to the floor.

We struggled for several minutes, until I was able to reach my hand and grab the jeweled hilt. I brought it to the Persian's throat.

"Okay buddy," I said, panting heavily. "What's the deal here? Why the hell were you trying to kill me!"

He stubbornly refused to answer my question. "You are going to kill me Mademoiselle? My soul is prepared, Allah blesses me. How about yours?"

"You haven't answered my question," I said, attempting to ignore the feeling of guilt he invoked in me.

"Nor do I intend to."

"The only reason I'm going to spare your life is because you may be of some use in our investigation. Now, tell me all you know."

Instead of answering, he pushed me off him with all his strength and sent me crashing into a concrete wall. Fighting waves of blackness, I forced myself to watch him take to his heels and dart down the alleyway, in the opposite direction from which we came.

I sat, stunned for several minutes watching the shadowy form retreat. I couldn't believe what had just happened or that I had the courage to face a potential madman with a knife. My throat was stinging horribly and I put my hand against it to see if there was any damage done. When I pulled my hand away it was stained red with my own blood. _Great, another wound for Watson to treat!_ I didn't know much about anatomy and was unsure if the Persian had nicked any important veins. Deciding it would be foolish to waste any more time sitting in the alleyway, where I could possibly bleed to death, I decided to return to the opera house.

I struggled to me feet, my body protesting every move I made. I briefly entertained the idea of giving chase, but my ribs and fear of bleeding to death forced me to push that thought from my mind.

I secured the knife in the band of my jeans and very slowly limped out of the dark alleyway. I'm sure I attracted several stares while I stood on the street contemplating just how to return to the Palais Garnier. After all, it's not every day you see a teenager wearing a dress that is covered with dirt and blood bleeding from the throat standing in the middle of a sidewalk.

"Mon Dieu, you are hurt!" A woman said approaching me on the sidewalk. Her violet eyes were filled with concern.

I shook my head. "It is nothing more than a scratch. Pardon moi, but can you please tell me how to get to the Opera House? I have to meet someone there and I seem to have lost my way."

The woman, who obviously took pity on me, pointed in the opposite direction that I was facing. "It is about a ten minute walk. You just go straight down this road, and you cannot miss it. Are you certain you are all right? I can hail you a cab."

"Thank you Mademoiselle, you are too kind, but I think a walk would do me a world of good. Merci beacoup." I nodded farewell to the woman and then started my painful journey back to the Palais Garnier.

In my current physical condition the ten minute walk doubled in length and I began to wonder why the hell I didn't accept her offer when I arrived outside the magnificent building also known as the Paris Opera House.

_Good job Mac, you made it_! I thought to myself as I sat on the curb in front of the building. In attempt to slow my breathing down, I forced myself to take deep breathes, despite the pain in my ribs. Once it returned to a normal speed, I removed my shoe and looked at my wounded ankle. Much to my disappointment it was beginning to swell.

_And you're surprised because why? Watson told you not to walk on it, let alone run. It's your own fault Mac. _

I shrugged my shoulders and in effort to leave my conscience behind, I very slowly limped up the stairs and entered the building.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: An Unexpected Greeting**

When I crossed the threshold, a very agitated Sherlock Holmes looked up at the door. He had evidently been pacing and was in mid stride when the door grabbed his attention. A glimpse of relief passed over his face, but it quickly turned to anger.

"Where the devil did you go?" He roared, quickly advancing towards me. "What the devil do you think you were doing?"

I was suddenly frightened by the wild look in Holmes's eyes. I've seen plenty of people get mad at me, but none ever fixed me with such a venomous stare. As he advanced towards me, his ferocious eyes and something in his expression made me instinctively back away from him.

"I-I didn't mean…I never meant….Look I--"

"You didn't mean to do what? You didn't mean to worry me? You didn't mean to worry Watson? Damn you!" He suddenly raised his hand high as though to strike me. "I…Watson instantly feared the worst had happened to you! What else were we suppose to think when we were in the fifth cellar and you were gone? I don't believe you ran off like that!"

I backed as far away from him as possible, until my back hit a wall. His rage was very slowly increasing and I was never more frightened of anyone in my life.

"Listen, I'm sorry," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

"You're sorry? Damn you!" With that, he struck me full force across the face. Tears instantly welled in my eyes and I'm sure his handprint was a livid red on my pale cheek. I opened my mouth to speak but I was too dumbfounded for any words to come out.

Suddenly, the detective paled and looked down at his hand. "Dear Lord," he murmured. His hand was shaking slightly and his eyes remained glued to the appendage, looking at it as if it sprang to life and struck me on its own accord. "What have I done?" He looked into my eyes, his filled with uncertainty.

"Holmes?" I asked, finding my voice. The sting in my cheek disappeared, leaving only a slightly numb feeling. "Holmes, are you all right?"

He swallowed several times and nodded. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. "I-I didn't mean to strike you. It's just--"

"Holmes, it's all right," I said putting my hand on top of his trembling one. "I more then deserved it. A human being can only take so much and after all I've done to you, especially deriding you, I certainly warranted it."

He nodded mutely and proceeded to stare at me, as though he was unsure why I was forgiving him. Realizing he was staring, he cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "What happened to you? This is a very deep knife wound," he said gently touching my throat, where the gash was. He gently fingered the wound and when he pulled his hand back, it was covered with blood.

Sheepishly, I removed the jeweled knife from the band of my jeans. "Caused by this," I said handing it to him. "I had a slight altercation with the Persian. You will be happy to learn that I found out some very interesting information from him."

Holmes raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a white handkerchief. He gently pushed the piece of linen against my throat to staunch the bleeding. "Hold that there," he instructed, removing his hand. "Watson will have to examine that."

"Don't you wanna hear what I found out?"

He nodded.

"Well our Phantom of the Opera alias the Angel of Music has an interest in Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. But I am not sure what that interest is."

"I'm sure all will be clear to us soon," he replied.

"You've solved it?" I couldn't hide the skepticism from my voice.

"I have a theory that covers the facts as I know them so far--"

"And this theory is?"

"I will not tell you or anyone else until I can completely confirm it."

I was about to argue back when I heard Watson's voice calling to his friend. I turned around and saw the doctor and my best friend hurrying towards us.

"Good you've found her," Watson said, anger was evident in his voice. He spied the white handkerchief I was holding to my throat. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I muttered.

They reached us and Watson pulled the linen away from my throat and examined the wound. "Very deep, I'll have to stitch that." His eyes traveled up to my face and he saw the pink mark on my cheek put there by Holmes.

"What happened here?" He asked pressing a finger against my cheek.

"I was struck by the Persian," I said stealing a glance at the detective, who was avoiding my eyes. "It's not a big deal."

Watson glared at me. "When you get your medical degree I will allow you to decide what is important to your health and what isn't. Until that time, I will be the one deciding, understood? Since we finished our tour of the opera house, it is best if I bring you back to the hotel and tend to that wound properly. Then, we should get a good dinner and rest. Our train for Brittany leaves early tomorrow morning."

Considering I was in enough trouble already, I decided not to argue with Watson. Instead, I grudging agreed and went with them to the hotel.  
"Tell me exactly what transpired," Watson said as he poured antiseptic into a bowl of boiling water.

"Well, I followed the Persian and we got into a little altercation. Nothing major. He went at me with a knife and I fended him off as best I could. This," I said gesturing to my throat, "is the result of my fight."

"You're very lucky to come out that alive. He nearly hit the jugular. Now hold still," he said rubbing the water/antiseptic on the wound.

"Damnit! What the hell are you doing? That hurts!"

"You should have thought of the consequences of your decisions before acting upon them," Holmes said, smugly inhaling the smoke from one of his ever present cigarettes.

"Like you should talk," I murmured angrily. "I didn't strike you and I don't indulge in cocaine, now do I?"

My remark had the desired effect and Sherlock Holmes choked on the cigarette smoke.

"Both of you stop bickering," Watson interrupted. "Holmes not another word out of you that will antagonize her while I am stitching this gash. Mackenzie," his green eyes stared at me with both a mixture of amusement and anger. "You are not to say one word until I am finished. Understand?"

Without moving my lips, I replied in the affirmative. The next fifteen minutes were the most agonizing and painful minutes of my entire life. Tears welled in my eyes as Watson pushed and pulled the needle through the flesh of my throat. My teeth ground together in vain attempt prevent myself from crying out in agony.

Sherlock Holmes, much to my surprise, sat next to me and held my hand in his in a comforting manner. He didn't flinch as I squeezed his hand in pain and he spoke soothingly to me, in attempt to make me more comfortable. Once, he even wiped away the silent tears that were running down my cheeks.

"All finished," Watson announced, cutting the thread and wiping dried blood from my skin. "So long as you do not get into another altercation that involves a sharp blade and your throat, you should be fine."

Despite the pain I was still feeling, I forced a smile and very gently murmured a thank you. He smiled and affectionately rumpled my hair.

"Although I should be angry with you, I cannot help but compliment your tenacity."

I smiled but said nothing.

"It would be best if you refrained from speaking for about thirty minutes. This way the stitches will set properly."

"Watson, I daresay I wish you would have done this earlier," Holmes piped in.

"What the devil are you talking about old boy?"

"If I would have known you could force her to be quite for any length of time, I would have taken a blade to her throat myself." The earlier kindness he had shown me only seconds before to be replaced by his sarcastic, biting wit and condescending attitude.

So much for Mr. Compassionate! I flashed him a venomous stare and I stood up, determined not to let him see how much his remark stung.

I stalked out of the sitting room, with Watson's rebuking remarks toward Holmes echoing in my ears. I hurried into the room I shared with Becky, thankful to find it empty and flopped down on my bed. I had to figure out why those moments Holmes showed me some kindness caused my heart to pound against my wounded ribs and cause blood to rush to my head. Why did I feel like I could stare into those deep grey eyes for all eternity? Fragments of anecdotes I heard from my mother and many of my older friends whirled around in my brain as it tried to find a way to rationalize these odd bodily responses.

"'I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on your father Mac. I lost myself in his eyes and I knew it was love at first sight'… 'Mac there's no better feeling then love, when you find your face flushed and you find yourself longing to see him, then you know you've found someone special.'"

Suddenly a thought entered my mind that succeeded in frightening me. Could it be possible, could it be just possible that I could be in love with Sherlock Holmes? It wasn't rational…but then again neither was time travel. _What about Shawn? What about him?_ One side of my brain was trying to bring up images of me and Shawn, trying to show memories of feelings when I was around him. _Mac you know as well as I do that you've never tolerated Shawn's belittling you. You're pulse has never raced the way it does around the detective for Shawn. You've never wanted to just stare into Shawn's eyes have you? You never had the desire to…_

I shook my head in attempt to cease the seemingly endless tirade of questions and emotions assaulting my mind. I could **not** love Sherlock Holmes. There was no way in hell he would ever reciprocate my feelings, mostly because he was, at times, a misogynistic bastard! But then again, could I really choose who I was going to have feelings for?

Feeling extremely frustrated at my inability to deduce the tangle of emotions I was feeling, I buried my face in a pillow and allowed myself to scream silently, my teeth biting the fabric in anger. Of all people, me the one who is always so confident and self-assured never unsure of my feelings, was reduced to frustration that I never felt before, frustration at my own inability to know what I was feeling.

I took several deep breaths in attempt to calm myself and at that moment I realized I needed to talk with someone, but whom? I certainly couldn't talk to Becky, she'd laugh too hard and would never ever let me live down my insecurity. Sherlock Holmes was certainly out of the question, he'd never understand and besides he was the one who I was in confusion over. That left Watson. Could I talk to him about feelings for his best friend? How would I breach the topic? How could I…

Further contemplation was ceased when the bedroom door opened and the very man who I wanted to speak to entered.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: A Heart to Heart With Watson**

"Are you in any pain?" Watson asked his voice soft and gentle.

I shook my head.

He moved closer and looked at my throat. "You should be able to speak now," he said smiling gently. "The stitches have set and you are in no danger of tarring them."

"Thanks Doc," I said softly. Suddenly my throat felt dry and I could not force any words out. I swallowed several times.

"Any pain when you speak?"

I shook my head. "None physically."

He cocked his eyebrows and stared at me quizzically. "What ever do you mean my dear girl?"

"Doc, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Certainly," he said, perching himself on the bed next to me. "What is troubling you?"

I sat up and stared into his green eyes as though the answer to my dilemma was to be found somewhere inside them. "You've got a wife right?"

He seemed startled by my question and raised his reddish eyebrows. "Yes."

"You love her right?"

He nodded and looked at me keenly. "Of course, although I don't understand what concern it is of yours--"

"I didn't mean to offend you Doc," I said suddenly remembering that love was not discussed openly in the Victorian Era. "How do you know you love her?"

"I don't understand--"

"Please," I said taking his hand in mine. "Please bear with me. I need to talk to you about something, but I don't know how to phrase it. Please, I need your help. Just answer the questions."

Watson seemed to contemplate my question for several moments. I was about to repeat myself when he spoke. "I just know I love her, it's just a feeling. When I see her my pulse races and I have the urge to hold her and never let her go. It's a feeling…I can't really describe it, I doubt the best authors could."

"You just know?"

He nodded.

"You mean you knew from the first moment?" _Of course he did you idiot! You read 'The Sign of Four' remember? _"You were never uncertain?" _No Bozo, not too many people are like you, totally confused because they might love a guy who wants nothing to do with them._

Watson raised his eyebrows once again and I wondered if he would answer the question. I nearly sighed with relief when he spoke. "Of course I was uncertain at first, I think everyone is. But I remember," as he spoke his eyes took on a far-away look, "when our hands searched for each other in the dark, when she went to me for comfort from her fear, it was that moment when I realized we were destined to be together. Certainly I was nervous; if Holmes found the Agra Treasure, she would be the richest woman in the world and would most certainly want nothing to do with a crippled, part-time doctor. Although I've never told Holmes, I spent as many sleepless nights as he, during that investigation, wondering whether or not I could live my life without Mary." Abruptly he stopped and his eyes resumed their usual sparkle. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah just lemme ask you one more." I took a deep breath and posed my question so quickly that my words sounded jumbled to my own ears and my tongue tripped over itself many times to get the vocabulary I wanted to say out. "So it's all right to be uncertain and it's all right to maybe be in love even if the person might not want your emotions or might want nothing to do with you? I mean what if the person you might love doesn't believe in expressing emotions? I mean what do you do then?"

Watson chuckled good-humoredly. "I daresay if that is how Americans phrase one question in the twenty-first century, I am glad to be living in this time."

I felt my ears burn red.

"In answer to your question," Watson said, his tone becoming that of a doctor ready to give a lecture to a patient, "love is a very strange and powerful emotion. Sometimes you cannot predict whom you will fall in love with and when you do fall in love, it is possible for that person not to reciprocate your feelings."

I smiled at the simplicity of his answer and nearly laughed at the common sense of it. "Why the hell couldn't I think of that?"

"Excuse me?"

I blushed fiercely when I realized that I spoke those words aloud. "Nothing," I murmured. Suddenly I remembered his request. "You wanted to ask me something?"

Watson smiled, the kind of smile a father gives you when you have said something out of ignorance, without proof or fact, an all-knowing smile if you will. "Why did you ask me all those questions about love? Are you feeling that emotion for someone?"

My face caught fire and I averted my eyes from his. "I really don't know," I admitted. "I think I am but…oh Goddamn it! I don't know what I'm feeling. I mean hell he's so confounding! One minute he's so sweet and charming and caring and I find that I can stare into those grey eyes for the rest of eternity and everything would be awesome! And then he's so nasty and cynical that I want to do nothing save throttle him. I mean he's…" I suddenly stopped when I realized how much information I gave Watson. Unless he was really stupid, which unfortunately he wasn't, he would undoubtedly know I have the hots for his best friend.

When I felt his arm go around my shoulders I looked into his face. His eyes sparkled with an understanding that I could not comprehend and when I saw that expression in his face, an expression of utter kindness, I had to fight the strongest urge to cry.

"Am I correct in assuming that these strange emotions have something to do with my friend?" He asked gently.

I nodded, feeling shamefaced. "Yeah," I muttered.

"I suspected these feelings for some time you know," he said at length.

"What?" Every one of my nerves was taut with fear. If Watson suspected then what if Holmes…

"Do not worry yourself," Watson said hugging me in a fatherly fashion. "I doubt if he even suspects."

"Really?"

"Yes," he replied. "For all the things my friend prides himself on, he is extremely dense when it comes to recognizing the emotions of the heart, so to speak."

"What set you wise?"

Watson raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

"What made you suspicious of my feelings toward your friend?" I asked, dropping my voice so I could not be heard outside the door.

"Do you remember our last conversation?"

I thought back for a few minutes and recalled it. I nodded.

"Do you remember what I said?"

"You said a lot of things Doc. Do you mind being more specific?"

He smiled kindly. "I believe I referred to the way you looked at him. Your eyes are always filled with uncertainty and longing and have been every time you see him. I would have to be extremely dense not to realize that you have feelings for him."

I blushed. "I guess I'm not that good at putting on a nonchalant façade, huh?"

He shook his head good humouredly. "I've seen better acting in music halls."

I laughed in a self-deprecating way. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't tell Holmes anything we said. I think I would die of humiliation if he ever found out!"

"Your secret is safe with me," he replied.

"Is it all right to…I mean can I…what I meant to say was…"

He put a finger to my lips, silencing me. "You've nothing to worry about. It is perfectly natural to develop feelings for someone, even for someone like Holmes."

I smiled. "Thanks Doc, for everything. I feel so much better having talked to you."

He grinned and messed my hair affectionately. "It's cool."

I laughed at his use of American twenty first century slang. After my confusion and all that had happened to me in the last two months, laughter felt so good and so welcomed, that I continued to laugh even after the comicalness of his statement wore off. I laughed at how stupid love could make you feel, I laughed at life in general and fate for having thrown me into the nineteenth century and having me possibly fall in love with the world's first and most stolid consulting detective.

"Mackenzie, are you all right?"

"Yeah Doc, I'm fine thanks." I replied, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes.

"What did you find so amusing?"

"Life and fate."

"I don't seem to follow."

"Everyone, at least where I'm from, is taught to believe that they are in control of their own destiny, and that nothing can happen to them that they don't want to happen. We all think that we control our fate and the direction of our lives, but in reality it is the other way around. Humans are all slaves of fate, doing her bidding, blindly going where she leads us, never having the chance to question her motives. I was one of those people who were taught, at a very young age, that there is a very dark, solid line between fact and fiction one that could never and should never be crossed; that I was indeed in control of my destiny. And now here I am, sitting on a bed in a hotel room in Paris, France in the year eighteen ninety one speaking with someone who I was raised to believe was a fictional character and discussing my potential feelings for his friend, whom I was also taught to believe was fiction. Fate, she threw me back in time for God only knows what reason and I didn't have the chance to protest or question her motives. It's crazy Doc, it's absolute bedlam."

"Although slightly morbid, it's not bad," Watson said looking at me. "You know, I never did believe that something like this could ever happen. I never, for one moment, believed in time paradoxes."

"Neither did I and yet here we are, people of two different times, two different worlds, sitting and talking like it was the most natural thing on God's great earth. It's crazy and what makes it so damned frustrating is the fact that I'll never know why I, of all people, was chosen to be sent here. Why I of all people was forced to fall for Sherlock Holmes."

Watson smiled at me and pushed a stray bit of hair behind my ear. "It's fate, and like you said before, we cannot question her motives."

I nodded and looked into his honest face and I felt tears brimming in my eyes. "Doc, it's just that I'm scared, terrified even. I'm scared of this inner turmoil I'm feeling, this strange mix up of emotions. I thought I knew what love was, I thought I knew the guy that was perfect for me, and now all those certainties are gone. I'm confused Doc, I'm so damned confused," I felt a tear run down my cheek and wiped my eyes angrily. "To make matters worse, I miss my home and I'm scared that I'll never get back. There were times when I absolutely couldn't stand my family, but now I find myself longing to see them. It seems the more time I spend in this era, the more I miss them. I miss their eccentricities; I miss dad's corny jokes, mom's over-protectiveness. Goddamn it! I even miss school and my teachers and classmates! I feel so alone here, so isolated…so scared."

Watson embraced me in a fatherly fashion and I leaned against his chest and listened to his great heart beat. When more waves of isolation hit me, I buried my face in the fabric of his shirt seeking comfort. "It's all right Mackenzie," he said soothingly. "You're not alone here, I'm here for you and so is your friend Becky, and, even though he refuses to show it, so is Holmes. You'll find a way home, a way back to your family, eventually. You'll even be able to sort out that inner turmoil of feelings. It will just take time and courage. And remember Mackenzie; if you ever need me just say the word and I will be there."

I hugged Doctor Watson tighter. "Thank you so much Doc."

"You're very welcome."

I stayed there, wrapped in his protective arms for several minutes. When I finally pushed away from him, I felt such a sense of calm, a sense of peace that I haven't felt in ages. My face must've showed how I was feeling because Watson chuckle and wiped a stray tear from my cheek.

"Are you all right?"

I nodded. "Yeah, thanks Doc, for everything. I think that finally, I can face this, I can face what's going on."

He smiled at me once more and rose to go. He removed his pocket watch and read the time. "I daresay, it is nearly six o'clock. We'd best get ourselves ready for dinner."

"Good idea Doc," I said smiling earnestly. It was at that moment that I knew everything was going to be all right.

Watson left the room and I was denied any time for contemplation because Becky entered, her arms filled brown parcels.

"What the hell do you have there?"

"Stuff," she said with an impish grin.

"Stuff and nonsense," I replied. "Unfortunately, the Victorian boys are in a hurry to get to dinner. I suggest we put on more suitable attire and not keep them waiting any longer then we have to."

Becky nodded in agreement and asked about my wound before entering the bathroom.

"Much better, thanks dude," I said to the closed door.

I rummaged through the dresses that Dr. Watson had bought me and I selected one of the nicer ones, a deep blue satin with a high cream collar, (which covered the newly acquired stitches) and lace at the wrists. I impatiently waited for Becky to get done in the bathroom so I could do my hair.

Roughly ten minutes later she came waltzing out, dressed in a plain hunter green dress. "Bathroom's all yours," she said with a smile.

I looked over her attire with a grim expression. "You're wearing that?"

"Yup," she said with a laugh. "We're only going to dinner, not the opera Mac."

I shrugged my shoulders and entered the bathroom. When I saw the mess of my hair I frowned. "Nothing I can do is going to make this look good," I said fingering my short blond locks. When I finally got it to look somewhat normal, I joined Becky and the others in the sitting room.

"You women look very nice," Watson said adjusting his waistcoat. He looked immaculate as usual.

"You look damn good yourself Doc," I said with a smile. "Damn good."

He blushed at my compliment and continued to fuss with his tie.

"For God's sake Watson," Holmes said his ever present cigarette in his hand, "it looks fine. Honestly, sometimes you are more vain then those two," the detective snapped. "If you do not hurry we will miss our reservation."

"Yes of course Holmes," Watson said lowering his eyes from those of his friend.

I hated to see his discomfort, especially since he has been a good friend to me, but I dared not say anything because I didn't know how Holmes would react. Not that I minded him blowing up at me, but I didn't want Watson to suffer any ramifications from Holmes's tongue because of me.

"You're in quite a hurry tonight Holmes. Are we expecting company this evening?"

The detective nodded and handed me a wrap to put around my shoulders. Never having seen it before, I looked at him, thoroughly confused. He shrugged his shoulders by way of reply and grabbed his own topcoat. "Yes we are meeting le Comte de Chagny at Le Villard, an expensive French restaurant a few minutes from here." He glanced at Becky's attire and grimaced. "You have nothing better to wear?"

"I do but I don't feel like putting it on," was my best friend's reply.

Sherlock Holmes shook his head and muttered something about the temperament of women before opening the door and allowing my friend and I to exit the room.


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One: A Disastrous Dinner**

Once outside the hotel, I was grateful for the mysterious wrap that Holmes had handed me. I made a mental note to ask Watson about its origin later.

Holmes hailed a cab and gave the cabbie the address. Within seconds we were rattling down the cobblestone streets of Paris.

"Le Comte de Chagny," Holmes said, "has a very unusual temperament."

"How so?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

"He can be quite cold and calculating. He carries himself with the air of an aristocrat and has a great amount of influence in the French government, which he isn't afraid to let people know. He is very fond of his younger brother who is more tiresome than he. However, this is an important dinner reservation and I hope I can trust you to be on your best behavior," that last statement was directed at me.

I smiled sweetly. "I will be the perfect lady. If you find him so exasperating, then why accept his invitation?"

"For that you can thank my Boswell," he said fixing a stare at Watson. "He felt it would be good to meet with le Comte and inform him of any and all progress we are making in our investigation."

"Are you going to tell him of the connection between le Fâtome and Christine's Angel of Music?"

"Of course not. I am going to be extremely ambiguous with details. I also pray none of you will tell him that we are going to be following his brother on the morrow."

"You can count on our discretion Holmes," I said answering for all of us.

The rest of the drive to Le Villard was spent in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. There was something Sherlock Holmes was not telling me, of that I could be certain. He had some reason for accepting the dinner invitation with le Comte de Chagny, because no one could make Sherlock Holmes do anything he didn't want to do.

When the cab finally came to a halt, Sherlock Holmes helped me down and put my arm in his, the typical fashion for a gentleman to escort a lady. When we were several steps in front of Watson and Becky, he dropped his voice so only I could hear.

"We must speak later this evening," he said so softly I had difficulty hearing him. "We are going to be heading into very deep waters. As of the moment, you are my wife. The French are very particular about single men and women. Once we arrive at the table of the de Chagnys I will introduce properly."

He looked as though he wanted to say more but stopped when the door man bowed to us. "Monsieur et Madame?"

"Bonjour," Holmes said holding my hand. "Monsieur et Madame Holmes. Our friends are quickly approaching," the detective said waving his hand toward Watson and Becky.

"Very good sir, enjoy your evening."

Holmes bowed to him and led me into one of the most glorious restaurants I've ever seen. Before I could take in all the details, a tall man dressed in a black tuxedo approached us.

"Bonjour et welcome to Le Villard. May I have your names please?"

"Holmes, Monsieur et Madame Holmes. Our friends are Monsieur et Madame Watson and they will be joining us shortly."

The man looked at sheet of paper and then looked up at us once again. "Monsieur Holmes, do you have a reservation?"

Holmes chuckled softly. "How very foolish of me. We are dining with Philippe le Comte de Chagny."

The man's eyes widened. "You are dining with le Comte?"

"Oui," Holmes replied, squeezing my hand, which told me to note the matréde's expression.

"Le Comte did not tell me he was expecting…"

"Monsieur Holmes?" A man of medium height with a high forehead and rust colored hair said as he approached us. He was roughly twenty one years of age with pale blue eyes and a handsome face which held a light rust colored moustache. He had the bearing of a military man and was dressed in a well-tailored naval suit, marking him as an officer of some type. "Ah Monsieur Holmes it is you. I daresay I did not recognize you without your frock coat. And whom may I ask is this young lady?"

"Mackenzie, may I introduce you to Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny."

Raoul smiled at me and took my hand in his and kissed it cordially. "The pleasure is all mine Madame."

"Mademoiselle," I corrected, attempting to hide a school girl blush. I usually blushed whenever someone paid me a compliment, especially a good-looking guy, but I felt no attraction to the young de Chagny whatsoever.

"I beg your pardon Mademoiselle…"

"Sterling, Mackenzie Sterling."

He kissed my hand again and flashed me another smile. "I'm very pleased to meet you Mademoiselle Sterling, very pleased indeed."

Holmes cleared his throat, obviously bored or disgusted or both by the show of welcoming the viscount was giving me. "Monsieur de Chagny, if you would show us to your brother's table I would be forever obliged."

"My apologies Monsieur Holmes," Raoul de Chagny said, standing at attention and clicking his heels in a military fashion. "My manners seem to have deserted me in the presence of such beauty."

I blushed again and my color change seemed to please Raoul de Chagny. "You Frenchmen certainly have a way with words," I said shyly. "Especially the handsome ones like you."

Raoul smiled again and then caught something in Holmes's expression that made his smile fade. He turned to the Matréde. "Jean Claude, I will need extra menus brought to the table. I believe there are four additional people dining with us?"

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "Oui."

"Come this way please," Raoul said flashing me one more smile before striding away.

Sherlock Holmes moved me out of the way and motioned for Becky and Watson to go ahead of us. When they were out of ear shot Holmes looked down at me his face set like stone.

"What the devil are you doing?" He asked angrily.

"Acting like a perfect lady," I replied.

"If that is how you act like a perfect lady then act less like one," he growled.

"You wish me to stop flirting with Raoul de Chagny?" I asked with mock innocence.

"Yes," Holmes said, "it is very unladylike." I looked into his eyes at that moment and if I didn't know any better I would have sworn I saw hurt in those expressive grey orbs. Before I could ponder this, Holmes very gently pulled me, signaling this conversation was at an end.

When we reached the table, a man of medium height with a strong build stood and nodded to us. He had a high forehead, which was made more prominent by his brown hair (streaked with grey), which was slickered back from his face. His cold blue eyes looked from Holmes to me and back again.

"Monsieur Holmes," he said extending a hand to the detective. "I would like to thank you for accepting my dinner invitation."

Holmes shook the hand and nodded. "Monsieur Comte, it is my pleasure. This," he said motioning to me, "is my associate Mackenzie."

"Mademoiselle," the elder de Chagny said with a slight, stiff bow. He certainly had the bearing of an aristocrat. "Please be seated," he said indicating the empty chairs across from his own seat.

Holmes, acting the part of a gentleman, pulled out my chair and helped me sit. He then took the napkin from the table and draped it across my lap. He bowed his head and took his own seat.

Becky kicked me under the table and grinned wickedly at Holmes's chivalry. I chose to ignore her grin and focused my attention on Raoul who was smiling sweetly at me from across the table.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, I see that you serve in the French navy and are on leave for several weeks. How are you enjoying Paris?"

The viscount paled slightly at my deductions and then chuckled. "I thought Monsieur Holmes was the only one who could look at a person and tell their life history. I daresay I was quite incorrect in my assumptions."

"No," I said with a smile, "Holmes taught me everything I know about observation and deduction."

"Monsieur Holmes, you must be an excellent tutor," the elder de Chagny said.

"Oh he is," I piped in. "He is very good and usually very patient."

Holmes's face flushed at the compliment. Watson had stated elsewhere that Holmes was as vain as a girl when it came to his unique talents. Tonight was certainly no exception.

"Well, she exaggerates of course," Holmes said. "I am no better than my pupil and she is very bright, although a trifle stubborn."

Our verbal sparring was stopped when the waiter arrived with a bottle of wine. He poured a small amount into le Comte's glass. Philippe de Chagny tasted the wine and then spat in into the glass. "Terrible!" He shouted. "Appalling! Take that back and bring something fresh! Now!"

The now red-faced waiter grabbed the bottle and hurried away. It was at that moment I realized I didn't like the older de Changy. He was rude and obnoxious.

I opened my mouth to tell him that he should not treat the waiter like that, when Holmes squeezed my hand under the table warning me to keep my mouth shut on the subject.

"Monsieur de Chagny, what do you recommend for a meal? Everything looks so good." I said, swallowing my rude comment.

"Normally I'd recommend the lamb but if it tastes anything like that last bottle of wine I hesitate to recommend anything."

_Arrogant bastard._ I smiled at him tightly and continued to peruse the menu. Although I despised lamb, I figured it would be tactful to order it. "I'll take you recommendation Monsieur," I said with another tight smile.

The waiter returned with another bottle of wine and both he and the manager waited nervously as the count cautiously tried it.

"This will do," the count replied.

The waiter looked relieved and poured a decent helping of wine into our glasses and then he took our order.

I will refrain from giving all the details of that atrocious meal, filled with boring idle conversation mostly about Monsieur le Comte de Chagny. If it weren't for the wine I don't think I would have ever gotten through it.

As dinner was nearing an end, the topic of Holmes's investigation came up.

"Monsieur Holmes," Raoul de Chagny said as he swallowed a rather large piece of beef. "Have you heard anything about Christine?"

Before Holmes could answer, my promise to Christine entered my mind. "I have spoken with her Monsieur," I said quietly.

"You have? What did she say Mademoiselle?" The excitement in his voice was strained by years of strict social behavior. "Did she say anything about me?"

I smiled indulgently at Raoul and paraphrased what Christine had said. "She said that she does care for you, that she misses you and that she really enjoys your company--"

"Did she say anything else? Did she tell you the reason that she no longer wants anything to do with me?" His energy was such that his elder brother had to put an arm on his shoulder to restrain him from jumping out of his seat.

I nodded. "Yes, she did give me a reason and she said that you should understand. She said that she doesn't want to upset her angel and she is afraid that her angel will leave and never return if she disobeys him. She said that her angel does not want her to see you and she must follow those instructions."

The older de Chagny snorted in contempt. "Of all the ridiculous reasons! Undoubtedly this angel is her lover. Raoul, Christine Daaé is nothing but a chorus whore and I forbid you to see her again."

"Monsieur de Chagny!" Watson said nearly springing from his chair with indignation. "How dare you speak of the lady in that manner! You should be ashamed of yourself sir!"

"Watson," Holmes said, his tone was that of a warning.

The Count merely laughed at Watson's chivalry. "You Englishmen are all the same, defending anything with different sexual organs than yourselves. Look at you, defending the very chorus whore who tried to manipulate my brother. The only Englishman who had a decent head on his shoulders was that fellow in Whitechaple a few years ago who slaughtered whores and what does that brilliant police force do when a sensible man comes along? They attempt to arrest him," swallowing the remainder of the wine in his glass, le Comte de Chagny snorted with contempt. "But then again, what should I expect from such a barbaric country. I say Doctor Watson; I do not believe your wife would appreciate you defending a whore, now would she?"

Watson's face turned red with indignation and Holmes put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Philippe! I will not have you insult Christine in such a manner!" Raoul barked hotly.

"Raoul, your whining makes me weary. You are just as bad as the English, defending whores." The Count said with a wave of his hand. Suddenly his cold blue eyes rested on me. "You haven't said very much in the way of the defense. Is it possible that you are the same type girl as Christine Daaé?"

At that remark Holmes leapt to his feet. "Monsieur le Comte de Chagny! Your actions are unworthy of you! I can sit here as you insult my country and my heritage. I have held my tongue as you insulted my dearest friend, but I cannot and will not stand for you insulting the one decent woman I know! You have some nerve, le Comte to even speak to her like that! If she was some guttersnipe I could understand you jumping to those conclusions, but her heart as well as her outer appearance are pure and beautiful! Enough is enough Sir!"

Everyone grew silent at Holmes's outburst including the garrulous and arrogant Count. All eyes were fixed on the detective and it was then that he realized what he had said. His face turned a livid shade of crimson and he swallowed several times before he could seat himself. He motioned for the waiter to pour him another glass of wine which he gulped down as though it was a life-saving serum.

It was several minutes before Watson or I could speak and when the doctor finally got over the shock, his voice shook with surprise.

"Holmes? Are you all…?"

"Quiet Watson!" The detective hissed. He drank down another glass of wine and got shakily to his feet. "Monsieur de Chagny," he said turning to Raoul, "I wish you best of luck in your relationship with Christine Daaé."

"Monsieur Holmes, please!" Raoul said hurrying to the detective. "Monsieur I need your help!"

"There is nothing more that can be done here, good night," with that Holmes turned on his heel and left the table.

I looked at Watson and he at me, both of us unsure what we had just witnessed. I asked him with my eyes if I should follow Holmes and he answered silently. With a nod to the de Chagnys, I got up and hurried after the world's first consulting detective, leaving Becky and Watson to attempt to make the best out of a bad situation.

I swerved through tables as fast as I could, ignoring both the pain in my ankle and the indignant stares from the other patrons. I rushed outside as I saw Holmes cross the street.

"Holmes! Holmes wait up!" I shouted to him. If he heard me he gave no indication and continued to walk at a quick clip down the block.


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty Two: An Emotional Showdown **

Where he was headed I had no idea, but I was certainly going to find out. As I ran I cursed nineteenth century clothing and that arrogant count. By the time I was halfway down the crowded street; I removed my shoes and was running on the cold cobblestones barefoot.

"Damnit Holmes! Wait up!"

Again he paid me no heed and continued to walk. I finally caught up with him on a nearly deserted street where he stopped under a gaslight.

"Holmes," I said attempting to catch my breath.

"Leave me alone," he growled.

I shook my head stubbornly. "No. Why did you run off like that?"

He turned his back to me and did not deign to answer my question.

"Holmes, come on, don't shut me out! Please, what's the matter?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the distance, keeping his back toward me. "You must be both deaf and dense if you cannot divine the reason for my flight."

He shivered slightly from the cold and his own emotions. I put my arms around him and immediately he tensed. "Get away from me!"

"No," I said holding him closer to me. He stiffened and attempted to pull away, but I held him fast. I rubbed his arms in attempt to get some heat into them. "Can't we talk?"

"About what? My humiliation? Perhaps you would like to talk about the reason I said something that I do not understand? I think not," he said pushing me away from him. Once again he began walking away.

"Holmes are you so dense that you cannot realize I feel the same way about you?" I cried out in desperation.

He stopped in the middle of the street and his body tensed as though he was just shot. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife and I knew that moment we were standing unsteadily on the edge precipice and a wrong movement could send us crashing into the abyss of loneliness and despair.

He slowly turned around and we stood facing each other, each uncertain of how the other was going to react. I felt like cowboy in the old west standing in the middle of a street waiting for the shootout to begin.

"What do you mean you feel the same way about me?" The confusion in his voice was very real and I pitied him for a moment.

"You accused me of being dense! Don't you realize I have feelings for you?"

"You have feelings for me? What type of feelings Mademoiselle?"

I was very quickly becoming frustrated with either his good acting or his ignorance. I knew if I had to voice my feelings aloud, nothing would be the same between us and yet I knew Holmes was not going to make the first move. "You're the detective Holmes! You figure out what I mean!" I took a deep breath and calmed my nerves. "We need to talk Holmes."

"There is nothing to talk about," he said but for the first time since I've known him, he sounded unsure of himself.

"Please Holmes, let's talk. There is a lot both of us need to say."

When he didn't reply, an idea formulated in my mind.

"You said you wanted to talk to me Holmes. We'll discuss the case, we'll just discuss the case and we'll both forget anything else said between us. All right?"

"Words are not that easy to forget," he replied softly. "They remain stored in memory long after a person is gone."

"Stop being morbid," I said with a small smile. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"If you are going to be so insistent, I suggest we go someplace warmer," he said most probably noticing my shivering. "It was very remiss of both of us to venture out without our jackets."

"I'm not surprised that I left it behind," I said with a great deal of self-deprecation. "I'm always doing stupid stuff like that," I shivered and cursed him silently for acting like an ass and running out of the restaurant. "Where do you wanna go?"

The detective took a few steps toward me, stopping under the very lamp where we first began this strange conversation. "There is a small tavern not to far from here. While it is undoubtedly quite loud and crowded we should be able to converse with relative ease."

"Sounds good to me."

"Before we begin our walk, I suggest you put your shoes back on," he said looking at my stocking feet.

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks but the biting cold would hide it successfully. Quickly I returned my shoes to my feet. Sherlock Holmes took my arm hesitatingly and we began to walk.

"I must escort you properly," he muttered, attempting to justify his actions. "People would think it queer for a woman to be walking with a man unaccompanied."

"Yes of course," I said not really caring about his reasoning. My thoughts were on the dinner conversation and his quick defense of me. He called me beautiful! No compliment ever and I mean ever made me feel as good as that one. _As beautiful as you may think I am Holmes, I think you're ten times as sexy and your heart is ten times as big. Could he be trying to win my heart? Oh God I hope so! _But then again, Sherlock Holmes was an excellent actor. He might not have felt that way about me at all. That comment could have been a ruse, a way for him to get away from the boring dinner conversation and discuss case details with me.

My mind threw back several instances when he attempted to do anything but win my heart. This evening's statement about cutting my throat stood out in my mind. But then again, the same man comforted me when I was missing home. He also saved my life. _Which doesn't mean a damned thing. The man obviously didn't want blood on his hands. _

_Yes but he was also nervous, and he said he felt guilty._

_Did you even think he felt guilty because perhaps he contemplated leaving you there? Did that ever cross your mind Mac? Didn't he say he felt guilty, like he caused your injuries? And didn't he, indirectly, by belittling you? You said before you set off on that staircase that you wanted to prove yourself to Sherlock Holmes .Be honest now Mac. _

_Yes but…_

_No buts, doesn't it make more sense to believe that he was just using the Count's words as an excuse to leave? Honestly Mac, how dense can you be? You heard him yourself denounce love and anything that had to do with that emotion. Come on Mac, this man is not as much as of enigma as you imagine him to be. Just forget the entire incident and see what happens…_

"Mackenzie, I daresay Mackenzie, are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

I started at the sound of Holmes's voice, which broke my interior conflict. "Huh? Did you say something?"

He sighed and muttered something about how I was a typical self-absorbed female. He at least, seemed to be back to his old self.

"What was that comment Holmes?"

He shook his head and removed his arm from the link it formed with mine. Funny, I didn't remember linking arms with him, but then again in the mental battle I wouldn't have remembered if he did cartwheels and started reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Without another word, he opened the door to a shabby looking tavern and motioned for me to enter.

The warmth enveloped me and I already felt the chill leaving my body. Holmes took my arm and gently steered me towards a secluded table near the back of the tavern. "Go sit down Mackenzie, I'll get us something warm to drink."

I obeyed and tried my best to ignore the stares of the inebriated men as they watched me sitting alone at the table. One had the audacity to approach me.

"Salut mademoiselle," the man said leaning over the table his face mere inches from mine. His breath was rank with the smell of sour alcohol and saliva. "What's a pretty lady like yoush doin' 'ere by yer lonesome? Me thinks yous are in need of some comp'ny."

"No, that is quite all right sir," I said softly. "I'm actually with someone."

"Y'are? I don't see 'im. Perhaps you jus' don't wanna come with Jacque? That wouldn't be very wise Mademoiselle, you do realize dat. No one rejects Jacque, an' I'll teach yer a lessen yer not gonna ferget," with that, he unsteadily raised his hand to strike me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were Jacque," it was Holmes's voice and I noticed Jacque's hand was stopped in midair. It took me a moment to realize Holmes had the hand in his powerful grasp. "She is with me Monsieur."

The man who called himself Jacque turned his face away from me and looked at Holmes over his shoulder. I guess something in the detective's posture made the man fearful because he suddenly became docile. "Aye I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean ta interrupt er walk on yer territory."

Holmes smiled and there was a powerful venom behind that smile. "I know, and I suggest you show that you are true to you word and leave us, now."

Holmes quickly released the derelict's hand and Jacque rushed away with several more incoherent apologies.

The detective sat down on the wooden stool Jacque was occupying only moments before and pushed a glass of frothing liquid to me. "It'll warm you," he said with a sincere smile.

I cautiously sipped the liquid and felt its burning sensation run the length of my throat. I took another, bigger swig and the started coughing. Holmes laughed heartily and grinned over his glass.

"Better drink it slow Mac," he said gently. "I didn't realize you weren't use to the liquor's strength."

For the first time since I had been thrown back in time, I felt really comfortable. A brief memory flashed through my mind of me and Shawn and Beck and Laury all of us sitting in the small coffee shop after rehearsal in much the same fashion as Holmes and I were sitting now. Holmes's grinning only made me think of Shawn and my friends again.

"No, I'm defiantly not use to it," I said not venturing to drink again.

"I prefer sherry actually, or a fine wine. This ale is more Watson's flavor," he was being honest and candid, another one of his chameleon-like moods.

"Now that we're here," I said allowing my eyes to take in the dark wood of the ale house and the dingy light that barely penetrated the shadows, "I think it's time we had our little talk."

If Holmes lost any of his confidence he didn't show it. "Yes, I did want to speak with you. I do not, for one minute, trust anyone that is involved in this pretty little problem. Although I have not laid eyes on our 'opera ghost' alias 'Angel of Music,' I have the strongest feeling that he is one of the most dangerous antagonists I have ever come across. I think it would be best if you and Becky remained here, in Paris, while Watson and I went to Perros."

"Why?"

"I believe Perros will be extremely dangerous. There is danger enough for me and Watson, I do not need the additional weight of your wellbeing and that of your friend to weigh upon my nerves."

"Since we're talking about my wellbeing," I said thankful that he brought the topic up, "why did you defend me during dinner? Why did you save my life in the cellar of the opera house and why did you protect me from Jacque just now?"

My question seemed to startle him because he contemplated my words for several minutes and took a nip of ale before answering. "Do you honestly think I would wish any harm to come to you?"

I shrugged. "I don't know Holmes," I answered frankly. "I just don't know."

He averted his gaze and found something interesting to examine on the scratched table top. "I will admit that I am not the easiest person to get along with."

"You could say that again," I retorted.

Holmes made no indication that he heard my remark. "I will also admit that I have no use for love or the softer emotions. They all reduce men to blithering idiots and a person cannot be logical if they are constantly being plagued by feelings. However I am sure you have realized all of that."

I nodded but said nothing. I had a feeling I was going to get some sort of strange confession from him and thought it best if I kept my mouth shut.

"I have seen betrayal and much of it in my lifetime. I learned at an early age that people cannot be trusted. I will not deny it was a difficult lesson to learn but one which I have kept with me since childhood. I kept very much to myself, never trusting anyone. Watson changed all that. He showed me that I could confide in someone, that I could trust another person with my secrets.

'However, my distrust for women I cannot overcome so easily. I have learned that they are manipulative and if you show them love, they do things that will tare your heart into pieces, turning your world upside down, changing the way you look at everything. But that doesn't mean that I do not or cannot learn to care for a woman as I would care for a sister or a friend. That is how I view you Mackenzie, like a sister. Despite my sneering insults and callous remarks, underneath I do care for you and I would not want to see you hurt any more then I would want to see Watson injured. What I am trying to say, is although I may fall short of being a friend to you, I view you as one."

This speech took my completely by surprise and I nearly dropped my glass in shock. Sherlock Holmes was admitting he cared about me! My heart swelled with hope that if I could get him to trust me and care about me, I could get him to eventually love me. Sweet Jesus how glorious that would be.

The sadness in his face ripped cloud nine out from underneath my feet. Obviously relating this to me had cut Holmes deeply; it seemed as though bringing up his past was extremely painful. It was then that reality slapped me hard in the face. All of the events that Holmes had told me about had happened to him when he was just a boy! Although I couldn't figure out what the events were, I could see by the haunted look in his eyes that they were painful and frightening.

A million thoughts rushed through my mind and I had to resist the urge to hug him. I wanted to comfort him in some way but I didn't know how. How could I…

I looked at the table and saw his hand lying on top of it. I gently covered his hand with mine and squeezed it gently. He was startled and looked up at me. Our eyes met and a mutual understanding went through us at that moment. A mutual understanding and agreement to trust each other and care for each other.

I squeezed his hand again and simply said: "I understand Holmes. I understand."

His eyes were filled with surprise and then he once again averted his gaze to the tabletop. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and very gently removed his hand from underneath mine. "Well," he said finishing his drink rather quickly, "I believe we discussed everything that needed to be said--"

"Not so fast Holmes," I said hiding a smile behind the foamy liquid in my glass.

He paled and looked slightly sick, when he realized that I had more to say. Undoubtedly, he felt he would have to make yet another confession.

"I disagree with you on one point."

"And what is that point?" He asked with feigned confidence.

"When you said that I couldn't go with you to Perros."

His face relaxed and he seemed much more comfortable returning to the case at hand. "Yes, and I stand by those convictions."

"However strong those convictions may be Monsieur Sherlock Holmes, I happen to be in disagreement with them. I believe I said before you go where I go and trust me I meant it."

"I take it," he said taking a final pull on his ale, "it would be useless to argue with you?"

"See, you're more observant than you give yourself credit for."

He sighed wearily and stood. "Considering the fact that I cannot avoid your coming along, we might as well go as friends rather than enemies."

"Good point," I said venturing another sip of the strange drink.

"Are you finished?" He asked looking at the glass. "I would recommend that we return to the hotel and get a good nights rest. Our train leaves early tomorrow morning."

I stood and immediately regretted the quick movement. (I drank more ale than I realized and drank it much quicker than I should have.) My head swam and I could not, for the life of me, feel my legs.

"Good Lord," Holmes said with a chuckle, "it appears you've had a bit too much to drink. Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I said letting go of the side of the table. "I just gotta get my balance." I slowly walked, (rather staggered) away from the table and stood next to Holmes. "Ready."

The detective put his arm around my shoulders and leaned me against him, in effort to steady me. "Just put your arm around me, I will keep you from falling."

I smiled and took a deep breath, the smell of the barroom suddenly seemed to diminish, and was replaced by the scent of sandalwood aftershave and shag tobacco. I was in heaven!

"Come along," he said slowly walking toward the exit of the establishment. I felt the eyes of the drunkards on Holmes and me but I didn't care. All that mattered was the detective had his arm around me; everything else was quickly forgotten.

I quickly sobered when we stepped out of the establishment and into the biting cold. I shivered and moved even closer to Holmes.

"Damn, it's so cold!" I muttered, watching my words turn to vapor in the frigid air.

"Yes," Holmes replied, although his voice did not even waver, which to me suggested he didn't even feel the cold.

"I feel totally stupid for leaving my wrap behind," I murmured.

"I feel the same way as you at the moment," the detective said holding my tightly. "Once we get to a better section of the city, I will hail a cab to take us to our hotel."

I nodded and said nothing, simply content to stay forever in a half embrace with Sherlock Holmes. My fingers were numb as well as the rest of my body, but at that moment I didn't feel it. I only felt my heart soaring in time with his even steps.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty Three: A Stalker in the Night**

However, my joyous mood abruptly changed when I took a good look at my surroundings for the first time since leaving the bar. We were no longer heading toward the main thoroughfare but we were walking in a part of the city where buildings were abandoned and the few residences that were occupied were swiftly falling into disrepair. We were walking in mostly shadows, and the few gas lamps that we did pass, did little to pierce the ever deepening gloom.

"Hey Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Where the hell are we?" I asked attempting to suppress a shudder. I could not shake the feeling that we were being watched by a malign force.

"We should be in a familiar area soon enough," he said, but the slight quiver in his voice betrayed his air of confidence.

"Holmes, I don't like this place."

"Neither do I," he admitted.

"Then why did you bring us here?"

Before he could answer, he stopped walking and I felt his body stiffen. Each muscle and nerve felt like it was strained to the breaking point.

"Holmes…"

He clasped a hand over my mouth to cease any sound. I looked up and saw his face in the thin, irregular glow of one of the lamps. His eyes were narrowed and blazed with some inside fire, his jaw was set firm and his entire countenance had look of a vulnerable animal of prey listening for any sounds of a nearby predator. He was listening, but for what?

I held my breath and strained my ears but could hear nothing but the lapping of the Seine River against its banks and the very faint sound of a clock chiming the hour. The air itself was eerily calm and still, the wind ceased suddenly as if it too had the premonition of some danger close and threatening.

"Holmes what is it?" I whispered against his palm.

He pressed harder against my mouth, signaling for me to shut-up. His body, if possible, grew even tenser and he held me closer to him.

Once again I strained my ears and after a few seconds I heard what his acutely turned senses had picked-up. There was a scrape of gravel against the cobblestone. A mild oath. Then silence…no, the silence was permeated by the softest footsteps I've ever heard. I've heard many footsteps at all hours, especially living on the third floor of my Manhattan apartment complex, but none ever filled me with such a sense of dread and fear. If these footsteps were able to invoke fear within me, I could not even imagine what the sight of the person who made them would do.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the taught body of Sherlock Holmes. He was my rock, my sense of safety. If anything were to happen, he could protect me. _Or could he? What if this presence is more powerful then he?_

I pushed those thoughts from my mind and searched for something which would give me a sense of peace. Suddenly, I fell back onto my Catholic teachings, the very teachings that I dismissed as fancy several years prior. Knowing what I hypocrite I was, I began to mutter The Lord's Prayer underneath my breath, hoping that He would give me enough strength to fight this evil presence if it would ever make itself known to us.

"Quickly," Holmes's voice was so soft against my ear that it was a challenge to make out his words. "Follow me and do not make a sound, our very lives may depend on our silence."

I nodded to show that I had heard his warning and I allowed him to lead me into a dark alleyway. His tense muscles did little to alleviate the sense of fear that was so strong in me. He very gently pushed me deeper into the shadows, making sure my back was against the hard surface of the building.

He squeezed my shoulder and once again his lips were at my ear. "Do no move from this spot until I return. Do you understand?"

_Did I hear him right? He was going to leave me here! Here, alone in the darkness with an _

_unknown presence out there? Was he nuts?_

I gripped his hand with as much strength as I had, attempting to convey to him my fear of being left alone.

"You'll be all right," he whispered, disengaging himself from my grasp. "I won't be gone long, I promise."

Before I could protest, Sherlock Holmes was gone and I was left alone in the cold, dark alley. Fear clawed at my soul, causing me to tremble. I allowed myself to sink to the grimy ground and buried my head between my knees. I began muttering the 'Hail Mary' over and over like an extremist who is in the throws of some divine agony by his god.

"Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee--"

"Praying to an unseen deity? Not what I would expect from an associate of the great scientific detective."

I gasped in fear when I heard the voice. It was the same voice I heard in the opera house, the very voice which had warned me never to cross its path. I closed my eyes and began to pray harder.

"Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus--"

"Yes, continue to pray, I find it amusing."

"Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for our sinners--"

"It is interesting how many Christians pray when they meet me. I must confess I've heard that very prayer said numerous times."

"Now and at the hour of our death--"

"Amen," the voice said and at the same time, I felt my head being jerked upward so hard I swore for a second that my neck was broken. I kept my eyes clamped shut, not wanting to see the person who was standing in front of me. I was about to reply, when I felt something as cold as ice grab my throat. Then much to my surprise and fear, I was lifted from my position on the ground and pinned painfully against the wall of the building, my feet suspended in air, no longer touching the earth underneath.

I was now staring directly into the amber orbs. The coldness of the appendage that grabbed my throat filled my body and I was, for unknown reasons, I was suddenly fighting the urge to vomit.

"Do not fear little one," the voice cooed mockingly. "I will not kill you. I have no reason to spill your blood."

_Gee, aint that a nice sentiment. Thanks a million buddy, lemme buy you a drink._

"I want to give you a warning, Innocent," the musical voice said. "It is similar to the warning I gave you beneath the opera house. You and your friend must stay away from my affairs or prepare to be trodden underfoot. Is that clear Innocent?"

My throat was constricted with terror and I could not speak.

Suddenly another cold appendage caressed my cheek, and the urge to vomit grew inside my stomach. Despite the coldness, I felt fingers tracing my lips and cheekbones and realized it was a hand that was petting me. Fear twisted my insides as I felt the cold hand touching various parts of my body. I had heard about situations like the one I found myself in on the evening news. I had no doubt that this man was going to rape and then murder me.

"Please," I whispered. "I'll do anything. Just don't hurt me."

The man laughed and continued to touch me. "What is the matter Innocent? Do I scare you?" The hand against my throat tightened and the other hand scratched my right cheek hard enough to draw blood.

"Yuh-yes."

"Yes what Innocent?"

"Yuh-yuh-you frighten me."

Another laugh. The man's hands began to go below my waist. "You haven't answered my first question yet Innocent."

_Oh God! He is going to rape me! His hand is getting lower and lower! God no, please no!_

"Wuh-what question?"

"Do I make my position clear?"

"Yuh-you make yourself very clear."

I almost felt the 'man' before me smile. "Very good answer Innocent. I hope we do not have another meeting like this again."

Then, before I realized it, he let go of me, disappeared into the darkness, and I dropped to the ground quite unceremoniously. Fear held me prisoner and I drew my knees up to my chin and began to cry. I rocked myself back and forth like a frightened child, in effort to ease my nerves.

"Mackenzie! Mackenzie where are you?"

The sound of a voice startled me so much that I cried out. I heard footsteps rushing toward me and I pressed myself against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. I clamped my eyes shut and continued to rock. Several whimpers of fear escaped my throat.

"Mackenzie, what is the matter?"

I felt a hand touch my shoulder and I started. Then the smell of sandalwood aftershave and shag tobacco entered my nostrils and I knew I was safe. Holmes returned! Before I could stop myself I threw myself on him and hugged him tightly, burying my face in the fabric of his shirt. "Thank God you're back," I said into the material. "Thank God you're back."

He tensed under my embrace, but I was too frightened to care. I stayed, my arms around his neck for several minutes, until my tremors of fear ceased. My rock had returned, I was safe.

"Mackenzie, what is the matter?"

I shook my head and let go of the detective, sensing his discomfort. "Let's just get out of here, please."

He helped me to my feet. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be led out of the alleyway. I felt his eyes on me, but refused to open mine until I heard the now familiar clip-clop of horse hooves against the cobblestone. I heard the detective shout for a cab and he helped me get into it. Once we were both seated and the cab began to move did I open my eyes.

"We're going to the hotel?"

The detective nodded and looked at me with something akin to concern his grey eyes. "What happened while I was gone?"

I shuddered as I felt an imaginary hand clutch my throat. How was I going to explain that moment of intense fear to him? How could I make him understand the danger, the pure evil that radiated from that being? It was not going to be an easy task.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and then I plunged headlong into my short narrative about the events that transpired after he left. He listened with rapt attention; his eyes had the far-away look in them that Watson had described many times when he was listening to the narrative of a client. He was completely attentive, listening to each word which exited my mouth. When I finished he was completely silent.

"You are not hurt?" He asked, breaking the mutual silence.

I shook my head, causing a shock of blond hair to fall into my face. "No, just a little shaken up, that's all."

He nodded, as though confirming my feelings. "Yes, well I would imagine you would be." He then turned his head and looked out the window. When he spoke his voice was hardly above a whisper. "I had some scruples taking you along with me on that damned reckless venture. I knew we were being followed and I was attempting to lure our pursuer out in the open where I could confront him. I failed horribly."

_Yeah you're right buddy, you defiantly failed. You failed enough to let your logic leave you and then in turn you left me alone, in a dark alleyway. Real nice of you, real smooth. _

I forced the little voice of doubt out of my mind. Holmes only did what he thought was best at the time. He followed his deductive reasoning; he couldn't be blamed for that.

"No Holmes, you didn't fail. You just did what you thought was best," I said forcing a smile. "I wonder who that 'person' was."

"The Phantom of the Opera, no doubt," the detective said matter-of-factly.

"Oh really?" I couldn't hide the skeptism in my voice. "And how, pray tell, do you know that?"

"You told me," he replied.

"I said no such thing Holmes."

He smiled wearily. "You told me he said he gave you a similar warning in the cellars of the opera house, did you not?"

I nodded, unable to see the connection.

"Well I used a bit of logic and simply deduced his identity. Honestly Mackenzie, you disappoint me. You should have been able to see the connection as soon as I told you who it was."

I groaned and said nothing, just listened to the clip-clop of the horse hooves.


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty Four: My Embarrassment **

"Vous etes ici!" The cabbie called down from his perch.

Holmes alighted from the cab, helped me down and paid the cab driver. When the driver rode off we stood in front of the hotel staring at each other for several minutes, neither one of us affected by the cold.

Holmes's usually pale cheeks were red from the biting wind and his black hair was wild and messy falling onto his forehead and face in quite a sexy fashion. Our eyes met and once again I felt my pulse race. All the blood seemed to rush to my head and my ears pounded with the rushing blood. Time seemed to stop at that moment; there was nothing but me and him. I suddenly had the strongest desire to kiss him, to rake my fingers through his raven colored hair and claim his mouth with my own. All of a sudden I found myself trembling with need and sweating like a damned fever victim. Holmes must've seen the sudden change in me because he stepped forward and cocked his head to the side quizzically.

"Mackenzie, are you all right?"

I was suddenly afraid to speak, fearing my voice would be sultry, blowing my cover and expressing my desire for him. I nodded stupidly.

He took another step toward me his muscular chest and torso straining to break free of his well-tailored clothing …_God that man has some body. _He pursed his lips _those soft pink lips, dear God how I want to taste them. _"Mackenzie are you quite certain you are feeling all right? Did that man in the alley force you to take anything? You look feverish."

_Yeah Holmes, I'm feverish all right. I'm friggin hot…and the cause of it is you. Why the hell do you have to be so stolid? Why do you have to hate love? Can't you just…_

"No, Holmes, I'm quite alright," I muttered and was highly embarrassed when my voice came out in a harsh rasp.

The change in my tone must have worried Holmes as to my well being, because he instantly was at my side and took hold of my arm. "I think you might have caught cold in this weather. Look at you, you're shivering. Come, let's go inside where you can take a hot bath and get some sleep."

_Trembling buddy, I'm trembling. There is a HUGE difference I assure you. I don't need a hot bath, I need a cold shower! Bed…what an alluring thought that is._

"I-I think that's a good idea," I said, feeling my desire to throw my arms around him and kiss him passionately intensify. It was obvious that he had never seen anyone in an aroused state let alone someone trying to hide their arousal, for he stood ignorantly next to me, clutching my arm.

He looked at me quizzically once more and then led me gently into the hotel.

We paused at the landing in front of the sitting room for Holmes to find his room key. It was quite late and undoubtedly both Watson and Becky would be asleep.

_Much much better for me. I can calm myself down without any biting comments from Becky. _

"After you mademoiselle," Holmes said opening the door.

_God, why did he have such a sexy accent when he spoke French? If he continues to speak like this I'll be wet from desire!_

"Merci," I whispered, proud of myself for making my tone sound somewhat normal.

We strode into the sitting room only to find Watson and Becky seated on the sofa.

"Holmes!" Watson turned around and stared at the two of us. I felt myself blush under the minute scrutiny. "Where the devil have you been? It's past midnight!"

The detective feigned a yawn and stretched. "It's that late? Well I must get to bed. Good night Watson, Mackenzie."

"G'night Holmes," I said softly.

Ignoring Watson's protests, Holmes disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

_Shit!_ I thought when I realized I was left alone with my best friend and Watson. _What the hell am I gonna say?_

We stared at each other for some minutes, when Becky finally broke the silence, her face set in a smug smile. "So Mac, where's the other hotel room?"

Catching the implication of her words, I felt my own face color deeply. "Go to hell!" I growled in embarrassment.

"What's the matter Mac, you don't wanna tell us about your adventure in lust?" She was unrelenting, her face set in a wicked smile. "You are completely flushed!"

"Do not presume to judge what I have done," I said my voice tight with anger. "If you saw what I saw and heard what I heard tonight, then you can comment. Until then kindly keep your mouth shut."

"Tell me Mac, was he good?"

It took all my self control to keep from decking her. I could not believe her impertinence! "Keep your filthy mouth shut! I am sick of your cajoling! I am sick and tired of your snide comments about Holmes and me. For your information, not that it is any of your business, but there is NO other hotel room and there was NO sexual action! Now leave the sitting room right now so I can talk to a civilized person in peace!"

"What, Watson gets to hear all the gory little details?"

"**Get out**!" I shouted, my voice shaking with rage. "Get out of here right now!"

With another sarcastic comment, my friend exited the sitting room, leaving me and a very startled Watson.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty Five: Another Talk with Watson**

Once we were alone I very unceremoniously flopped onto the sofa and closed my eyes. "Sorry you had to witness that Doc," I said without looking at him.

"Although I am not completely use to your twenty first century dialect, I could understand what your friend was implying."

I nodded and proceeded to rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. "Yeah, I know and I'm ever so sorry. God sometimes I wanna kill her."

"Mackenzie!"

"Relax Doc," I said chuckling at his horror. "It's a statement, a figure of speech, nothing more, nothing less."

"Mackenzie, you seem troubled," Watson stated.

"Confused is more like it," I said with a tight smile.

"Your emotions again?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm confused about the enigma known as Sherlock Holmes." I opened my eyes and saw Watson cock his head to the left signaling for me to continue talking.

"You and Holmes have been friends for years right?"

The doctor nodded.

"Has he ever…" I stopped and contemplated the best way to phrase my question. When I realized there was no tactful way to put it, I just stated bluntly: "Has he ever mentioned his past to you?"

"His past cases?"

I shook my head again. "No, his past life?"

"You are talking in riddles."

I took a deep breath and realized how stupid the previous words sounded. _Good Mac, tell Watson some more about reincarnation!_ "Listen Watson, has he ever told you about himself…I mean his family, before you met?"

"Why do you ask?"

Quickly I told him about Sherlock Holmes's strange confession to me over ale at a dingy Parisian bar. "It sounded to me that something happened in his past that made him so distrustful of people," I concluded.

Watson nodded and a faraway look entered his eyes. "Yes, quite right. A perfect way to describe him, distrustful."

I said nothing, realizing that Watson was completely oblivious to my presence in the room.

"Holmes has always been reticent on that particular subject, although he never once shied away from deducing the past of others, he still doesn't. He lives by what Americans call double standards."

"You can say that again Doc," I said not able to hold my tongue.

He started and his green eyes focused on me. "You can't fault him for that though Mackenzie," the doctor said gently. He leaned forward and took one of my hands in his own. "I know you love him; I can see it in your eyes, in your expression, which is why I am going to tell you something I've never told anyone. You must swear on your life you will never repeat what I am about to say."

Feeling extremely curious, I nodded. "I swear Doc."

He squeezed my hand and quickly stood. He pressed his ear to bedroom door of Sherlock Holmes, I am assuming to see if he was awake or not. Satisfied, he repeated the action on my bedroom door. He then returned and once again took one of my hands.

"I needed to make sure we are not overheard. What I am about to tell you took place several years ago. Holmes and I had been co-habiting and friends for roughly six years. It was Christmas night and Mrs. Hudson left the house to visit her niece in Kent, leaving us two bachelors alone to spend the holidays in our own fashion.

'I remembered how excited I was because I believed I had found the perfect gift for my enigmatic friend." The good doctor paused and his eyes once again took on a far-off expression, a small smile played on his lips which showed how much he savored the past memories.


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty Six: Watson Remembers**

"Holmes old boy! I shouted throwing open the sitting room door. "Merry Chris…" When I crossed the threshold, my face fell and my holiday greetings died in my throat.

Sherlock Holmes was curled up in his armchair, his profile mostly in shadow from the flickering flames of the dying fire. The sleeve of his mouse colored dressing gown was rolled up to his elbow and he was pressing his forearm with his right hand, searching for a vein. I knew what was going to come next.

"Holmes," I said not wanting to see him slowly destroy himself. "Not tonight, not on Christmas."

My voice grabbed his attention and he diverted his gaze from his arm and he looked up at me. His face was set in a scowl that marked his blackest moods and his eyes were blazing with extreme self loathing. He then returned his attention to his arm and picked up his syringe. Perhaps my warning gave him that extra push he needed to inject the vile substance into his bloodstream, or perhaps the holiday cheer annoyed him, but whatever the reason, he threw the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger home. Then he reclined back in his chair with a satisfied sigh of relief.

I cannot describe the acute disappointment I felt when I saw him inject himself. All the hard work that I did in effort to eradicate his destructive habit, his supreme willpower, all our combined efforts had come to naught. I had hoped that he had overcome his addiction, but when I saw him inject himself all my foolish hopes died in my breast.

I shook my head in disgust and hung my coat on the wrack to dry. "Holmes! Holmes how could you? After all we have done, how could you go back to this vile drug? Why does it hold such power over you? Why?"

"Watson," he said his voice cold. "I am not in the mood for one of you indignant lectures. I would appreciate it if you left me alone."

"Holmes, I can't. Not when you are like this! Holmes it is Christmas, a time to be with the ones you care about, a time to be with close friends…"

He raised his hand to silence me. "That is your view of Christmas Watson! That is how you celebrate it. I would prefer to forget it! But you, you insist on decorating the flat, on filling it with disgusting holiday cheer. I have put up with these holiday tidings of yours long enough. I suggest you celebrate Christmas your way and I shall celebrate it mine," he said turning away from me.

"But you don't celebrate it! Idon't understand why the holidays put you in such a black mood. Every Christmas for the past six years I have watched you administer unhealthy amounts of cocaine into your bloodstream. I want to know why. I want to understand!" I pleaded.

"It is not for you to understand!" He spat angrily. "If you are going to proceed to lecture me on the joy of Christmas then I would appreciate it if you and your holiday cheer left. I don't need either one of you."

His remark stung more than I would ever admit to him. I rose to my feet and angrily tossed my wrapped gift to him, hitting him squarely in the chest. I noted the look of surprise on his face, but did not give him the chance to say anything. "If that is what you want Holmes," I said walking from his chair and grabbing my coat. "I will leave. I do not want to interrupt your dark thoughts."

I started for the door, but his voice stopped me. "Watson, please. I-I didn't mean what I said." If it were another man speaking those words I would have sworn he was on the verge of sobs. But surely Sherlock Holmes would never show any kind of emotion.

I turned toward the figure in the chair and regarded him silently. Now was the moment of truth. If Holmes was willing to be open with me I would stay. But if he chose to shut me out I would leave and possibly never return.

"Watson, please stay," he murmured softly. "I do not want to be alone tonight."

The amount of pleading and sadness behind those words affected me deeply. I removed my coat and sat down in my accustomed chair across from Holmes's.

"Holmes," I said, my voice gentle for the first time that evening, "are you all right?"

He looked down at my gift and shook his head. "No."

"Perhaps if you told me what was troubling you, I could help," I offered.

"Or you could hate me, leave and never return," he said in a voice so soft that it was nearly impossible to hear.

I gasped. "Holmes, how could you say such a thing? You are my dearest friend, I could never hate you. What would make you say that?"

"Because you are chivalrous Watson and you would have leapt to help the lady in need. I did not and for that, I will always hate myself."

"Holmes…"

He once again raised his hand to silence me and took several moments to marshal his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was soft and strained as though he was experiencing wrenching emotional turmoil. "Watson, I must apologize for my earlier behavior, but you must understand, the cocaine, it takes away pain of unhealed wounds, wounds that I thought were long forgotten but occasionally they resurface and the pain begins all over again.

'Christmas, for you and most other people, save Mycroft and myself, most probably brings back warm memories of your boyhood. You probably remember Christmas dinner with your family and opening gifts beneath a pine-tree. Am I correct?"

I was a little unnerved by this strange conversation and the even stranger question. "Yes, Holmes you are correct. But I don't understand--"

"Quiet Watson," he barked quickly. Then he smiled apologetically. "Your gift shows the depths of your friendship and it is one of the few Christmas gifts I have ever received."

I was startled. "Holmes, you cannot be serious!" I gasped thinking back to the Christmases of my youth, when my father always had several gifts for my brother and me.

"I am quite serious old fellow. I-I have no gift for you Watson, no tangible gift anyway."

I opened my mouth to protest but he raised a hand to silence me.

"You have trusted me with your confidence several times, from telling me of your time in Afghanistan to telling me the painful memories of your elder brother. I want to…" his voice faltered for a moment. "I want to show my same trust for you. I…for Christmas, I want to confide in you and tell you the reason I abhor the holiday. Perhaps it will help you to understand me better."

"Holmes," I said feeling extremely humbled. The best and wisest man I have ever known wanted to take me into his confidence. "Holmes, do not feel compelled to tell me."

"I want to tell you Watson," he said vehemently. His tone then softened. "I owe it to you. My childhood was never a happy one. My father was a drunk and my mother, although kind and tender, I could never relate to her…father never allowed it. I…I was never wanted as a child, Mycroft was, Father needed a boy to carry on the name, but I…I was an accident, an accident caused by one of my father's drunken rages.

'Christmas was always a horrible time of the year; Father would drink more than normal and mother would be more fearful. One Christmas night, I was seven years old at the time; we were all sitting together in the sitting room.

'Mother had given Mycroft a gift and she gave me a hat, my deerstalker which you my dear Watson, have publicized in the Strand.

'Mother put me to bed and sometime later I was awoken by shouts, angry shouts. Being naturally curious, I crept onto the landing and peered through the supports that held up the railing. I was in shadow, but could see everything. Father was drunk and was shouting at Mother.

'"Who is he? Tell me wench!"

'Mother murmured something in reply, but I couldn't hear her. Whatever she said enraged Father so much…" Holmes's voice broke and he struggled to keep his composure. "Father struck my mother so hard that she fell against the hearth. He then raised one of the iron pokers and beat her with it until she stopped struggling, stopped moving.

'I wanted to run down the stairs and help her, but I was too scared. Father was terribly angry and I was frightened of him. When Mother didn't move after several minutes, Father's face whitened. He stumbled to his study and then I heard the sound of a gun being fired. The shot brought Mycroft down and he looked at me, I was probably white-faced and shaking, and then he saw Mother. Mycroft grabbed me and held me close, turning my head so I couldn't see anything.

'He whispered gently in my ear to be strong, that everything would be all right. I was confused, and frightened. I didn't know what I had happened. I suppose on some level I knew that my parents were dead, but I didn't want to admit it. I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep…"


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty Seven: Shock, Anger and Sadness **

"His brother Mycroft told him what happened after the funeral. It seems that Holmes's mother had a lover and that night, Christmas night, his Father found out. His Father, in a rage, killed his wife and then, realizing what he had done, shot himself.

'I swore to Holmes I would never tell anyone what he told me that night. We never spoke of it again. But I decided to tell you Mackenzie, because you love him. And maybe, this will help you to understand his lack of emotion and his distrust of women."

I felt tears rush down my cheeks and I stared at Dr. Watson, unable to comprehend what he had just told me. My heart bled for Holmes, for what he was forced to endure, for the pain that he attempted to hide for so long. Suddenly a rage I could not understand built up inside me. I hated his father, his mother and who ever her lover was. I hated them for putting Sherlock Holmes through all that misery and pain.

When I finally found my voice, the first thing that came to my mind was a quote from a play we read in lit class.

"'But I suppose life has made him like that, and he can't help it. None of us can help the things life has done to us. They're done before you realize it, and once they're done they make you do other things and at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be and you've lost your true self forever.'" I quoted quietly. My mind was reeling from what Watson had just told me.

"Very true statement Mackenzie," Watson said quietly. I could see in his face that he too was feeling utter sadness for his best friend.

"I didn't come up with that Doc; it was Eugene O'Neill in his play A Long Day's Journey Into Night. But it does apply to what you just told me." I sat for several minutes turning over Watson's narrative in my mind. "Hey Doc?" I said at length.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think maybe Holmes's perceptions can be changed? I mean do you think he can be shown that he is a good person and that he can trust women, as well as others?"

The doctor pondered my question for several moments and then shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't say for sure," he admitted. "As you said 'None of us can help what life has done to us…until you've lost your true self forever.' I doubt anyone has ever tried. I know I haven't and I feel ashamed of that every time I look at him. I left him for my wife, left him in solitude. He probably thinks I left him because of the way he is. I left Baker Street to marry Mary, shortly after he told me. He probably thinks…"

I grabbed his hand and forced him to look at me. "Watson, don't be ridiculous. I'm sure he knows that you care for him as a friend. I'm sure he realizes that you do not think less of him or feel that he should have defended his mother."

Watson smiled gently and stared into my brown eyes. "I daresay you're right. I don't know what got me started talking like that."

"Doc," I said quickly.

"Yes?"

"I'm gonna try and show Holmes, show him that he is a great guy and that he can trust others. I'm gonna try and show him that it's okay to show his emotions, that he won't get hurt every time."

"You are taking on a noble mission," Watson said gently. He quickly looked at the clock on the mantel which read one thirty. "We'd best get to sleep, our train leaves early tomorrow, or rather this morning." He stood and stretched while stifling a yawn. "Are you getting to bed?"

I shook my head. "Nope, I'm gonna stay out here for awhile. Good night Doc."

He rumpled my hair affectionately. "Good night Mackenzie, and I hope to God you succeed on your quest."

I smiled and watched him go to his bedroom and quietly shut the door behind him. The Doc was right of course, it was late, but I couldn't for the life of me think about sleeping. So much had happened in the last few hours that my brain was spinning uncontrollably.

"Poor Holmes," I murmured staring at the dying fire. "He's got such a big heart too! What life has done to him. I swear to God if his father was still alive I'd kill him! If I ever learn who that lover was I'll kill him too! It's because of him that Holmes suffered!"

_No you won't kid. You don't want blood on your hands._

_Like hell I don't! I swear if I ever run into that sonofabitch I'll murder him for what he's done to Sherlock! Goddamnit! I hate that man's guts and I don't even know him! That's the worst part! I can't even kill the bastard cause I don't know who he is of if he's even alive!_

_Mac, shut up! You're dog-tired and you can't think straight. Just go to bed, you'll feel more lucid in the morning. Who knows, perhaps you can make Holmes change for the better. But one thing is for sure, you won't do any good sitting here worrying about it when you're so tired. You've had a rough enough day. Go to bed!_

I decided to listen to myself and I stood and stretched. After turning out the gas I went into the bedroom I shared with Becky and undressed. I put on my PJs and climbed into bed. As I rolled over to get comfortable, I heard the unmistakable voce of my best friend.

"What was going on in there? Were you with the doctor or the detective?"

I closed my eyes and attempted to ignore her. I was still pretty sore at her comments and after hearing about Holmes's past from Watson, I didn't want her to slander the great detective.

"What are you so sore about anyway?"

"Like you have to ask?" I murmured.

"Yeah I do. You were awfully touchy tonight."

"I have good reason," I replied, my anger toward the unknown lover still smoldering in my mind.

"Damn, you're evil when you get some action in bed."

That comment did it. All the anger that was building up inside of me, decided to burst forth at that moment. I sat up, trembling with anger. "Christ! Can you for one minute get your mind out of the gutter? Is it so surprising that I spent time with a guy without sleeping with him? You with all your goddamned presumptions! It's times like this that I hate your guts! You don't know what went on tonight; you don't know the emotions that were felt.

'You always want to bring people down to your level! Just because you lost your virginity to the first guy that paid any amount of attention to you, doesn't mean that I have to! All right? You don't know my feelings, you never will. I would gratefully appreciate it if you would keep your mouth shut until you can comprehend what you are talking about!"

"Wow, that comment hurt."

"I'm glad."

"What happened to your sense of humor? Damn, you've been touchy ever since you met Mr. Holmes."

"It's because I was a little confused and now when I finally figured out what I was feeling, you proceed to make sneering comments that aren't true. On top of those sneering comments, you proceed to slander a man who you know nothing about! I'm sick of it! I'm fucking sick of it!"

"Alright, easy Mac! Easy! I didn't mean to offend you. I'll never mention your sex life again or talk about Sherlock Holmes, all right? Although I still think you should bed someone before you go to college."

My face colored. "Apology accepted, last comment ignored."

She laughed. "I wonder what Brittany is gonna be like."  
I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Watson said it is really cold there this time of year."

"I'm beat," I said meaning both physically and emotionally.

"Me too," she admitted.

I pulled the covers around me and put my head on the pillow. "Night."

"Night."

I closed my eyes but sleep would not come. Images of the strange amber eyes haunted my mind, as though they burned themselves into my memory forever. The voice, his voice, the voice of the madman replayed itself in my mind. '_I want to give you a warning Innocent_.' I shuddered at the remembrance. _Innocent._ What made him call me that? It was as though with those amber eyes he could see through to my very soul. Despite all my rough talk and the occasional raunchiness, I was still innocent to many things. I've had two boyfriends in my seventeen years and never went beyond a brief kiss with either. Could he have possibly known this, known how innocent and insecure I really was? Could he have known my secret longing for Sherlock Holmes and thus was mocking me?

_Innocent. _Holmes when he was seven. Because of some nameless bastard, he lost his boyish innocence, the belief that the world was good.

_Innocent. _The various meanings of the word, various nuances and colors. What did he mean?

I pondered the questions that assaulted my mind for a long while. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I was awoken by a nightmare of amber eyed corpses, a nameless, faceless man who lurked in shadows and frightened boys holding each other for comfort.

I was unable to fall asleep after that nightmare so I decided to get dressed. I threw on a dress; I didn't even know the color and completed my toilet. When I finished, I glanced at the mantel clock in our room. It read four thirty.

I walked into the sitting room and stared out of the window for several minutes, looking at the city of lights below me, allowing my mind to focus on nothing and everything.

The morning was dismal, reflecting my mood. Ominous clouds hung over Paris, threatening a storm and a thick fog rolled over the city from somewhere, mostly probably the east. When my head was a little clearer, I left the hotel room and stepped outside, to loose myself in the fog.

In the fog, the line between reality and illusion blurs. You can loose touch with yourself and walk aimlessly, forgetting for the moment that you are even on land. That's where I wanted to be, lost in the fog where life can hide from itself and you forget all your problems. In the fog you become a ghost, with no past, no future no painful memories. You are only in the moment, only living as a ghost inside the fog.

I don't know how long I was a ghost in the fog, because as I said you loose all sense of time in that swirling smoky fog. Eventually, the dampness of the early morning set in my bones, bringing me back to reality, sharpening that line between reality and illusion. The dampness reminded me that I was not a ghost of the fog, but a mortal person with a past, future and painful memories. The fog lost its magic then, and I hurried back to the hotel where I warmed myself by a roaring fire in the lobby hearth.


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty Eight: An Amusing Deception**

As I sat in front of the blaze, a red-headed man with a cubby face and a ruddy complexion sat next to me and leaned close to the fire. He was dressed plainly, in a simple red shirt and tweed pants that were worn in the knees. Undoubtedly, Holmes could have deduced the man's life story from those knees, but I was unable to do so.

"Bon matin," he said. His French was tinted with a thick Irish brogue.

"Bon matin Monsieur," I replied.

"Ca va?"

I was in no mood for conversation but I had to be polite and reply. "Eh, je suis comme ci-comme cą, merci. Et vous Monsieur?" (Eh, I'm so-so thanks. And you sir?)

The man smiled at me, and for a brief moment, I swore I saw that smile once before. "Merci. Je suis trés bien." (Thanks I'm very good.)

Knowing what was expected of me I smiled. "Porquoi?" (Why?)

"Parce-que, je connais vous mais vous ne connaissez pas moi!" He said with a laugh. (Because I know you but you don't know me!)

I raised my eyebrows at the strange man. "Huh?"

Suddenly, he let out a peal of laughter and he ran his hands through his red hair, only to remove it and reveal black hair. Then his face became thinner and his eyes sparkled brightly. In an instant I realized I was sitting next to Sherlock Holmes!

"Mon Dieu!" I said shoving him gently and laughing at my own foolishness. "Holmes you got me!"

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows in confusion. "I didn't get you anything."

I laughed again and smiled. "It's an expression we use in the US of A meaning you fooled me or you surprised me."

He nodded and very slowly tried out the new phrase. "I got you."

I tried extremely hard not to laugh, because his slight English accent (which is heavier than Watson's) made the phrase sound ridiculously proper. I looked him over; surprised at the way he could change his voice and appearance. "When Watson wrote that you were a master of disguise he wasn't kidding. You know something, Lestrade's right, when you decided to become a detective the stage lost a fine actor."

He blushed slightly at the compliment. "Merci beacoup."

"So what's up with the disguise?" I asked curiously.

"Since we are going to make a clandestine journey I do not want to be recognized by our quarry. I will alter your appearance when we go upstairs."

I cocked my head to the left. "Sounds fun."

"Come along," he said, a touch of impatience was in his voice.

I stood and followed him to the sitting room. "Sit," he commanded.

I barked but the joke went over his head so I just did as I was told.

"Are you by any chance Irish?"

"I'm as Irish as leprechauns and Blarney Castle," I replied.

"Good."

Fifteen minutes later, when I looked in the mirror I gasped. Gone was the seventeen year old, short blond haired, pale faced and stubborn chin of Mackenzie Sterling. In 'her' place was a pale freckled-faced, bright eyed Irish peasant girl who looked about ten years old, complete with long flowing brown braids which stopped at the middle of my back.

"Oh my God," I gasped looking at myself in the mirror. "I don't recognize myself. You're amazing!"

Sherlock Holmes grinned at my praise. "We must work on your Irish brogue and get you into some peasant clothing."

I curtsied and allowed a blush to rise to my cheeks. "Dia dhuit laddie," I said greeting him in Gaelic with my best Irish brogue.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You know Gaelic?"

"A little," I replied. "I can say hello, welcome, good luck, cheers and goodbye."

"This will be very helpful, very very helpful," he replied staring into space.

"Holmes, what are you looking at?"

"When we finally see the viscount, you can greet him in Gaelic, draw him out into conversation, learn what you can…"

I shook my head. "Holmes, I don't think that is such a good idea. I mean acting wise…"

"You'll do splendidly, you'll see. Now," he said slapping on his red wig once again. He picked up a bundle of clothes and handed them to me. "Put this on and then rouse your friend."

I did as he instructed and tried to stifle a laugh when I slipped into the threadbare peasant dress Holmes had given me. I tiptoed over to Becky's bed and very gently prodded her.

"Aye lass, there's nothing like Ireland in the mornin'. Up an' outta bed lass, 'urry up!"

"Hmm?" She opened her eyes and looked around with foggy eyes. When she saw 'me' she gasped. "Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing in my room?" She demanded, pulling the covers protectively around her.

"Aye, no need to be shy lass," I said offering a toothy grin. "It aint like you've got anything I 'aven't seen b'fore."

She gasped and then tightened her grip on the blanket. "That is sick! I don't know who the hell you are or how you got in here but I want you out of here right now, or I'll call hotel security!"

"Aye lass, no need to get nasty. I'm leavin' but I suspect you'd best get up b'fore yer train leaves," I said exiting the room.

I looked around the sitting room and spied Holmes sitting smugly in an arm chair, a satisfied grin on his face.

"And you are worried about your acting!" He said with a smile that could have been derogatory if not for the warm gleam in his eyes. "You will be able to fool someone like Raoul, le vicomte de Chagny."

I smiled at his off-handed compliment and bowed slightly. "Merci Monsieur…"

"O'Neill and you are my daughter Bridget," he said softly.

I grinned. _I wouldn't mind playing your wife._ _Mac, stop it!_ "So when are we going to leave?"

"As soon as your friend and Watson are up and I alter their appearances."

"In that case," I said feigning boredom, "I'm gonna go to the lobby and find out what I can about Brittany."

Holmes glanced at the clock on the mantel. "It is six o'clock. We will meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes."

"Yes sir," I said with a mock salute. Before he could comment, I hurried out of the sitting room.

_'These are hidden fires indeed!'_ I thought as I slowly walked to the lobby. Holmes was being jovial, polite and kind to me. Perhaps all that happened last night helped us break through our barricade of belligerency.

So lost in thought was I about the sudden change in Holmes's attitude that I didn't see the man in front of me and unceremoniously crashed into him.

"Pardon moi," I said looking at the man who I crashed into. I wanted to die when I realized it was Raoul de Chagny.

He flashed me a boyish smile. "That's quite all right Mademoiselle. May I have the honor of your name?"

"Bridget O'Neill," I said coquettishly. Thank God I remembered to use the name Holmes had given me. "And you are sir?"

He once again smiled. "Je m'appelle Raoul de Chagny." He bent down and kissed my hand. "You are lucky I remembered my name, because I usually forget myself when I see such beauty before me."

_So I'm not pretty eh Raoul? That's your spiel for every girl you come across. I figured as much at Chez Villard. _

Suddenly it dawned on me who he was going to go see. I knew I had to stall him long enough for Holmes to leave. "You are not _the _Raoul de Chagny?"

"I see my name precedes me," he said with a little bow. "How do you know of me Mademoiselle O'Neill?"

"Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny," I said with a coquettish smile. "You are known all throughout France, even in the small town of Perros, where I am from, for your amazingly good looks."

He raised his eyebrows. "You are from Perros?"

I nodded my head. "Oui Monsieur."

"I am headed there myself."

"Oh really?"

_Come on Holmes, hurry up!_

"Yes, I am going to meet a friend."

"Oh, that is interesting Monsieur. I am returning home on this morning's train."

"You are so young! You cannot be traveling alone," he clucked.

I smiled. "Non Monsieur, I am not traveling alone. I am going home with my Papa."

"Good, because if you were traveling alone, I would have insisted that you be my companion."

I forced another smile and wondered how much longer I could stall the viscount before he went upstairs and ruined Holmes's (my) plan. "That is very kind of you Monsieur. I would have liked that very much. When does your train…"

"Bridget! You wretched girl, where are you?" I heard 'my father' (Holmes) call.

I turned around and saw the detective standing on the stairs looking around. "Papa!" I shouted running to him. "Here I am Papa!"

"Ah Bridget!" He said with a smile.

I jumped at him and he caught me easily in his arms. "Papa!" I said kissing him on the cheek. _Heaven!_ "Papa what took you so long?"

He smiled at me, the gaze in his eyes one of an adoring father looking at his favorite child. He was a great actor indeed! "Aye, I woulda been down here quicker had your uncle Thomas not take so long to get ready."

"Where is Uncle Thomas?"

"He's coming down. He is helping Deirdre with the bags." He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at Raoul de Chagny. "And who is that young man who you were bothering?"

"That is…"

"I am Raoul le Victomte de Chagny," he said stepping forward with an air of self-importance. "She was no bother Monsieur. I found her quite charming."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "An' how would you know of her charm?"

"It's all right Papa," I said turning toward Holmes so Raoul did not see me laughing. He was certainly a **great** actor. "He is extremely honorable. I was being clumsy again and I walked right into him!"

'My father' laughed good humouredly. "I apologize Monsieur le Vicomte. But you will see when you are a father. You become over protective."

Raoul de Chagny smiled. "It's quite all right Monsieur." He looked at his watch and suddenly realized how much time he spent lingering speaking with us. "If you will excuse me Monsieur," he said with a smile. "There is someone I must speak with before I leave. I hope I will see you both in Perros."

We waved good bye and Holmes ushered me out of the lobby and onto the street. We walked a block and then made a sharp right turn.

Just when I was going to question him as to what he was doing, I saw two people, two Irish looking people, a man and woman standing in shadow with bags. It did not take a detective to figure out that the couple was Watson and Becky.

"Did you secure a cab old boy?" Holmes asked.

Watson, who was dressed in a shabby brown tweed suit, nodded his now 'bald' head. "Yes, right this way Seamus," Watson said motioning to us for follow him. We walked a little further and found a waiting four wheeler. Watson grabbed our bags and put them in the little luggage spot. Then he helped Becky and me get in. Once the two men were inside, the cab began rattling away.

"My dear Mackenzie, you were brilliant!" Holmes said with a laugh. "Very clever of you to stall the Vicomte like you did."

"See Holmes, I use my brain for something!"

He smiled and the four of us settled into a compatible silence. When the cab stopped, I heard the familiar whistle of a train and knew we were at the train station.

"Holmes," Watson said checking his pocket watch. "I say old boy, we don't have much time to catch our train."

The detective shrugged. "How much time do we have Watson?"

The doctor once again consulted his watch. "Five minutes."

"Enough," Holmes replied helping me down from the cab. He grabbed my small carpet bag (compliments of Dr. Watson) and slung it over his shoulder as though it didn't weight more than an ounce. He lifted his own, which caused his shirt to raise just enough to give me a glimpse of his well toned abs. I immediately looked away before my limbs turned to jello.

We threaded our way through the throng of people at the station and found an empty first class cabin. We boarded the train with only three minutes to spare.

Once the conductor checked our tickets he closed the door behind us, leaving us alone. The detective looked at me quizzically.


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty Nine: Nightmares**

"You look exhausted," he muttered quietly. "Didn't you get any sleep last night?'

I stifled a yawn and shook my head. "It's no use to lie to you. To be honest, I didn't really sleep last night."

"Why, what was troubling you?"

_What Watson told me about you Holmes, what happened to you when you were a kid. The rage which clawed at me. Not to mention the nightmares of the two amber eyes. _

"I just couldn't get comfortable," I said fighting back another yawn. The train pulled out of the station and the gentle clack-clack-clack of the train against the tracks was hypnotic and enough to loll me into a restful state of mind.

"Then I suggest you get some rest. We have a long night ahead of us," he said taking his pipe out of his pocket and filling it with tobacco.

"That's a good idea," I replied. In effort to find a comfortable sleeping position, I leaned against the detective.

He gasped and tensed. "W…what are you doing?"

"Relax Holmes," I murmured, closing my eyes. "I'm just trying to get comfortable."

"Yes but…"

"But nothing," I said with a small smile. Sleep was already weighing down my eyelids.

He grumbled some unintelligible response but I couldn't make it out because I was already falling victim to the soothing sounds of the train.

"Night Holmes," I mumbled closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of shag tobacco and sandalwood aftershave. That in conjunction with the hypnotic rhythm of the train was enough to lull me into a peaceful slumber.

I was awakened sometime later by what I thought was a muted cry. Not sure if the sound was real or imagined, I slowly opened my eyes to find Becky out cold on one side of the compartment and Watson groggily making himself more comfortable on the other.

"Father no!"

I glanced up at the detective who had just muttered and saw his eyes closed, but his pale face was contorted with fear. Dried tearstains were on his cheeks and he was thrashing about.

"No! Please, don't! No!" More whimpers of fear escaped his lips and his thrashing grew worse.

I quickly realized he was experiencing some kind of nightmare. My heart cleaved in two as I watched his agony and I knew I had to do something to calm him.

I carefully got up and knelt on the floor next to him. "Holmes, Holmes my friend, please wake up!"

His thrashing grew worse and his whimpers of fear grew louder. "Father, stop! Please! No!"

I brushed strands of raven hair off his forehead and gently rubbed his tense shoulders. I hated to see him in such agony. "It's all right Holmes," I crooned softly. "It's all right; it's just a dream Holmes. Please wake up." I shook him very gently, in attempt to wake him. "Holmes, my friend, please wake up." I couldn't bear to see him in any more pain, whether real or imagined. Once again I felt rage build up inside me, rage against his father who haunted him still.

"Holmes," I whispered gently and shook his shoulder. "Come on Holmes, please wake up."

He thrashed once again and his eyes flew open. He grabbed my shoulders and looked wildly into my face, although not registering what he was seeing. "Stay away from me! Don't hurt me again!" He shrieked in fear. His fingers dug painfully into my shoulders and I winced against the pressure.

I was beginning to panic and I did the only thing I could think of. I slapped him hard across the face. "Holmes, stop! It's me, Mackenzie."

He blinked his eyes and looked around, as though in a fog. His grey eyes were filled with fear and terror as they focused on my face.

"It's all right Holmes," I said rubbing his arm in a soothing fashion. "You were having a nightmare. You're safe now, you're safe."

He blinked once as the meaning of my words registered in his sleep-clouded mind. "Mackenzie?" He asked uncertainly. His voice was gravely from sleep and his hair was tousled.

I nodded. "You're safe now."

He blinked again and glanced around the cabin. I could tell he was still tired. "What happened?"

"You were having a nightmare," I said softly. I heard his whimpers of fear in my mind and my heart wrenched. Trying to comfort both of us, I climbed back on the chair and threw my arms around the detective. I hugged him tightly, despite his attempts to free himself from me. "I hated to see you so scared. What happened Holmes? Can you tell me what the dream was about?"

I felt him shake his head, but he hesitated long enough for me to realize he knew what he was dreaming about. I felt his arms go around me and his body trembled with fear. I held him tighter. "I'm here Holmes. I won't let anything hurt you again." I settled against him and this time he didn't protest. "You can sleep easy now."

His next words were almost inaudible and they were filled with a kind of insecurity that I never associated with the great detective. "Will you stay? Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

I looked up into his face and saw it creased with lines of agony. "Of course Holmes," I whispered softly. "I will stay as long as you wish me to."

He squeezed my shoulder gently and then murmured something. Several minutes later, his breathing evened out and I knew he once again fell a victim to the arms of Morpheous.

I closed my eyes and listened to him breathe. I wondered what terrors assaulted his mind, what horrors he kept locked in his memory. I wished to God I could do something to ease his inner turmoil, to make him feel safe and secure. I kept my arms wrapped around his slender body, my head leaning against his chest and I allowed the gentle lub-dub of his heart lull me into a semi-state of sleep.

"Mackenzie," a voice whispered, bringing me back to wakefulness. I felt a hand cover my mouth and immediately I tensed.

My eyes sprang open and I saw Watson standing over me, his palm covering my mouth so I couldn't cry out or make a sound. With his free hand he pointed upward and I followed his finger. Much to my surprise, Holmes's head was leaning on top of mine, a peaceful expression on his features. His arms were still wrapped around me, but he seemed to have changed position for I was leaning closer against him.

I looked at Watson and he smiled a genuine smile. "I don't know how you did it," he whispered.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. _What was he talking about?_

He must've seen my expression because he smiled again. "After his nightmare, I don't know how you managed to sooth him back to sleep. Normally, the only thing that can relax him after one of those is cocaine. You were so gentle, so soothing."

I once again looked up at the detective and noted the peaceful expression on his face and the slight smile that played along his lips. "I don't know what I did," I admitted quietly against his palm. "I just did what my Mom use to do whenever I had a bad dream." Memories of my mom soothing me back to sleep after a nightmare assaulted my mind, brining a nostalgic feeling of sadness over me.

Watson removed his hand from my mouth and rubbed the top of my hand with this thumb. "You have a gift of giving him solace."

I said nothing, unsure what to make of Watson's words.

"I hate to wake him because he looks so peaceful."

"Do we have to? Can't we just let him sleep?" I said, selfishly not wanting to leave the warm

cocoon of Sherlock Holmes's arms.

The good doctor shook his head. "We're almost at our stop."

I yawned and nodded. "I'll wake him," I said softly. I motioned toward Becky. "You can rouse her; it'll be a much more difficult task."

Watson nodded and sat next to Becky on the chair. He very gently shook her shoulder. "Mademoiselle," he said softly.

I looked back up at Holmes, wanting to savor the moment as long as possible. I tried to embed the picture of his peaceful face, the tousled raven colored hair falling into his face, giving him an innocent, almost boyish appearance, the languid dreamy eyes and the slight cherubic smile that played along his mouth, in my memory forever.

Very gently, I wriggled my arm from behind his back and I once again brushed his hair from his face. I gently shook his shoulder, although I desired to rouse him another way. "Wake up sleepyhead. We're almost there."

Groggily, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was, undoubtedly surprised to find himself in such a compromising position. "Mackenzie, what the devil?"

"Good morning to you too Holmes," I said, glad to find my voice was of normal tone.

He looked down at our bodies which were still entwined and he blushed furiously. "I…I'm…"

"Oh shut up," I said with a smile. "There's no need to apologize. I'm as guilty as you are. Did you sleep well?"

He cleared his throat and looked down at me, an uncomfortable smile playing along his lips. "Quite well, thank you."

Realizing he wanted to stretch, I slid to the other end of the bench seat and watched the detective with rapt attention. He stretched his arms and his neck which protested the movement and cracked loudly. He did not regard either Watson or Becky. His grey eyes met mine and they were filled with puzzlement.

"Mackenzie?"

"Yeah Holmes?"

"I'm curious," he said yawing in spite of himself, "I remember a troubled sleep and then you waking me. Did you or did I simply dream it?"

Most people would have answered immediately, yeah I woke you. However I could not find an answer that would satisfy his question. If I admitted to rousing him, I would have to tell him that he was in the throes of a horrible nightmare and I would have to explain that I soothed him back to sleep. That would have shown weakness in him, something he was not keen on expressing.

I could have lied to him, but I was such a bad liar he would have seen right through my charade. Not knowing what else to do, I stole a glance in Watson's direction. He caught my eye and seemed to understand my plight.

"You dreamt it old boy," the doctor said with a very convincing smile. "If anyone would know, I would. You know I am a very light sleeper."

Holmes nodded and seemed satisfied with his friend's answer. "Thank you Watson," he said smiling slightly. He nodded a greeting to my friend Becky, who was eyeing me curiously.

_Damnit! She saw, she saw me in his arms; saw the stupid smile on my face. This is gonna be fun to explain. _

I cast my eyes downward and then focused my attention to the world outside the train carriage. I didn't want to meet Becky's eyes, didn't want to see her sarcastic smile.

Much to my surprise, the scenery changed quite a bit from when the train had first left Paris. Gone were the tall buildings and the overcrowded streets. They were replaced by a spattering of ancient-looking dwellings snugly placed in valleys between the soft rolling hills. A faint dusting of snow was beginning to fall, dusting everything white, and turning the landscape into a serene image that seemed to belong on a Christmas card. Within a few hours, the snow would turn the sleepy little villages into winter wonderlands, utopias for children.

Dusk was also falling, the dark clouds of the storm blotting out the daylight and turning the warm cozy atmosphere into one of desolation. Even as I gazed out at the setting from the carriage of a train, surrounded by close friends, a feeling of isolation settled in my bones. Each house spaced far from one another, giving an almost ominous feeling to the otherwise quaint, picturesque scenery.

_Mackenzie, morbidness is once again settling over you! Snap out of it Kid!_

I was right and I knew it. My mind was once again turning itself into a nightmare making machine, bringing out the worst qualities in everything. The memories of Holmes's nightmare and the utter fear on his face did little to improve my spirits.

"Whatcha thinkin' about Mac?" Becky asked, interrupting my morose thoughts.

I looked up at her and noted concern on her features. "Nothing," I replied quickly.

"You only brood like that when something is bothering you," she replied matter-of-factly. "You have that frown on your face and your eyebrows are furrowed. Your eyes also have that far-off look which means you are deep in thought. I've known you long enough to know all your quirks and eccentricities. Now what's on your mind?"

I chuckled in spite of myself. "Can't hide anything from you Beck," I said with sisterly affection. "You're much too observant. But don't worry yourself; I'm not brooding over much of anything. Just letting my thoughts wander."

"Don't let them wander too much," Holmes said, interrupting my conversation with Becky. "We're here."


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty: A Dog Cart Ride**

I didn't even notice that the train had stopped. As we got off the train, I looked around and couldn't help but wonder what adventures and potentials horrors were in store for us.

We grabbed a quick lunch/dinner at the station and then, without a word, the detective hailed a dog-cart and briefly gave the cabbie a description of Christine Daaé. Much to my surprise, the cabbie remembered her from the night before.

"Take us to the inn where you took her," Holmes said softly.

The cabbie nodded and motioned for us to climb into the dog-cart. Holmes gave me a leg up and then climbed up after me. I looked at the cart skeptically.

"Don't worry, it is quite safe," the detective said with a smile.

I started when I realized he read my inner most thoughts. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Do what?" He asked with feigned innocence.

"How did you know what the hell I was thinking? Man, it's a little unnerving!"

The detective chuckled and turned his back against the wind in effort to light his cigarette. "It is a bit of very simple reasoning. When I helped you into the cart, your eyes immediately began looking around, and were filled with apprehension. Hence I deduced that you were nervous about its safety."

"Amazing," I gasped.

"Elementary," he replied. "Perros," he said taking a long drag on his cigarette, "was once occupied by Celtics and much of their Irish heritage is instilled in the village today."

I grinned. "How the hell do you know so much trivia?"

The detective shrugged and said no more. The wind and air was freezing, settling into my bones and causing my teeth to chatter. I rubbed my hands over my arms and wished fervently that my disguise called for a warmer coat.

"Damn it's cold," Becky said, watching her words turn to vapor.

"Tell me about it," I replied with a slight smile. I looked at Watson, who seemed to be just as cold as me and my best friend. "Don't you agree Doc?"

"Whole-heartedly," Watson replied. "I would give you my jacket…"

"Please Doc, keep it," I replied quickly. _No need for you to be totally freezing. _"We'll survive."

"Aye, don't worry none," the cabbie said from his perch. "We're almost there."

"Thank God," I said looking at the detective who was sitting next to me, not shivering, as though he were immune to the icy wind and falling snow.

"I want you all to remember the roles you are playing," the detective said looking at each of us in turn. He returned to his state of reticence before any of us could reply.

We all lapsed into a cold, uncomfortable silence. I stared out into the frozen hills, hoping to see some form of civilization. Unfortunately, for the next three miles there was nothing to look at but scattered woods and the occasional, but extremely rare house.

"We're 'ere!" the cabbie called, bringing the dog cart to a halt, which nearly catapulted me from my seat.

I looked around, to see exactly where here was. When my eyes settled on what had to be a one hundred year old building, set along a beach that was so covered with snow that the sand was not discernable against the powdery white snow, my heart sank.

"We're gonna be staying here?" I murmured.

"Tell me about it," Becky said with a glum sigh. "Hell, I liked that other motel in Paris much better."

"My opinion mirrors yours," Watson said putting an arm on either one of our shoulders, "but as long as it has a roaring fire inside, I won't mind it. Come along," he said gently pushing us toward the building.

I silently agreed with what the doctor said and stepped into the ancient building, hoping to gain some warmth from the frigid air outside.


	32. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty One: The Shadow's Views**

I see them, the detective and his posse; I watch as they entered the Setting Sun and watch as they leave ten minutes after that sniveling, wretched Vicomte de Chagny. I would love nothing more than to murder him, as I have murdered so many others. Oh how delicious it would be to feel his neck pop under my powerful hands. How my hands tremble at the very thought of killing him!

I haven't killed anyone for quite some time, no one since Buquet, whose death was unavoidable. He knew too much about me for his own good, he found out how dangerous I was when it was too late. I could have murdered Mackenzie last night; in fact I had to use every bit of self control I had to keep myself from killing her. I also had to resist forcing myself on her, and releasing those urges which have been repressed for so long.

Although not exceptionally beautiful, no where near as gorgeous as my Christine, she is attractive in her own way. She certainly has her own style, short hair! I have never seen anything like it before, nor do I think I will see anything like it again. However, I have decided to save myself for my Christine, and not waste my energies on foul creatures. Oh Christine! You are the most beautiful angel I have ever seen. You are my angel of music! You are my soul! Why can't you see my love for you? Why must you torment me so?

The sound of voices brings me out of my brief reverie. I look up and the infernal detective and his associates are almost on top of me. For the first time in my life, I am thankful for my mask, which helps me to blend in with the ever darkening sky. I wrap my cloak more tightly around me and press myself deeper into the shadows. When my back hits the cold granite of Christine's father's tomb, I sigh with relief. I know I am safe for the time being. Making sure I am deep in shadow, I close my eyes and allow the various voices of the night to ride on the wind and bring themselves to my well tuned ears.

"Raoul, what are you doing here?" It is the voice of my Christine! The music in her voice has turned my whole world around. Warmness fills my heart and I resist the urge to sigh. I close my eyes tighter and try to fill my entire being with the angelic tone of her voice.

"Christine! Christine how I've waited for this moment! What are you doing?" The warmness in my heart turns to ice and my eyelids fly open at the sound of that voice! My vision slowly turns to red and once again the image of breaking that meddlesome boy's neck is forefront in my mind. _Don't allow your rage to get the better of you. Wait, listen; don't interrupt. This could prove to be quite interesting. _With some effort I manage to subdue my rage and continue to listen.

"I was preparing to pay my respects to poor father Raoul. I should have known you would be here, he told me." Sweet naïve, innocent beautiful Christine.

"Christine, did your father tell you anything else? Did he tell you how much I love you?"

"Oh Raoul! Raoul this is not the place to profess love!" The girlish peal of laughter is a knife in my heart. Before I can stop myself, a wail of agony and anguish escapes from my lips. My cry shatters the unearthly silence of the night, causing my dear angel and that wretched boy to cling together and stare into the sky, with terrified expressions on their faces.

My hiding spot gives me an advantage and I can see the expressions on the faces of Mackenzie and the detective, despite their hiding place. Both hold an air of alertness and a look of fear flashed fleetingly across the girl's face. Had I not been in such pain I might have found their expressions comical. I once again look at the detective's face, which was intent and drawn. Despite my pain I cannot stop the smile that is creeping across my ravaged features. I have successfully unnerved him. Perhaps he realizes he cannot meddle in the affairs of the Angel of Death.

I must continue to watch, this could prove to be entertaining…


	33. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty Two: The Graveyard**

"Holmes," I whispered, gently tugging his sleeve. An animal like cry echoed through the silent graveyard and something in that cry triggered a twinge of remembrance in my brain, although I could not for the life of me figure out why. "Holmes, did you hear that?"

The detective nodded and briefly glanced down at me. "Yes Mackenzie, I heard it. Quiet now, we must wait and listen."

I shivered in spite of myself and fervently wished Holmes had allowed Becky to accompany us, because if he had, Watson would not have stayed behind, and would have been beside us, his trusty service revolver tucked snugly in his coat pocket.

_Damn you Holmes! Why must you make everything so difficult?_

I shook my head and tried to force all negative thoughts from my mind. I was here to watch and listen and that is what I intended to do. I moved slightly closer to Holmes and peered into the darkness, watching the viscount and the soprano quietly conversing, their silhouettes illuminated by faint moonlight.

"Raoul, what was that?" Christine asked, grabbing the viscount's sleeve. "What was that?"

Raoul de Chagny shrugged his shoulders in attempt to appear brave. "It was nothing Christine. Probably just wolves. Come," he said kneeling in front of a large tombstone. "Let us pray for your father."

The two figures knelt down and bowed their heads in silent prayer. Suddenly, for reasons I could not explain, I had the strongest urge to turn around and head back to the Setting Sun, leaving the two to pray in peace. Prayer was something sacred, something private, not meant to be shared with complete strangers, and that is what Holmes and I were, strangers to the couple. I felt as though I was invading their privacy, by standing behind a tree watching them, as though I was making their prayers sacrilegious by attempting to make out their words.

As if he sensed my doubt, Holmes squeezed my shoulder, breaking into my thoughts and forcing me to return my attention to Raoul and Christine who were now standing.

"Do you think the Korrigans will come out tonight?" Christine asked, her voice floating softly on the breeze, and into my ear. She pointed to the moon. "You remember the Korrigans, don't you Raoul?"

Even in the darkness, I could see a smile of remembrance on the face of Raoul de Chagny. He took Christine's hand in his and held it tightly. "Of course I remember the Korrigans, Christine. I remember everything your father ever told us," his voice was soft and soothing to listen to, "I remember our time here. The way we were so many years ago, long before operas and men's voices in dressing rooms."

At the viscount's last statement, Christine started. "Raoul, what did you say?" A tone of icy fear was evident in her voice.

"The night I went to your dressing room Christine. I waited in the corridor; I waited for you to come out so I could speak with you. While I was waiting, I heard a voice coming from your dressing room. It was a man's voice Christine. It said, 'you must love me. You do love me don't you?'

'And you replied Christine. You replied 'how could you say such a thing? I sing only for you.'

'He answered. He said 'your soul is a beautiful thing child. The angels wept tonight.'

'Who was that Christine? Who said those things? Tell me, I have a right to know!"

Even in the moonlight, I could see the singer's normally placid features contort into a look of both horror and disbelief. "You heard that?" She asked, grabbing the viscount by the arm and forcing him to stare into her wild eyes. "You heard?"

Raoul de Chagny nodded and seemed as surprised as I did by her outburst. "Yes Christine, I heard the man's voice. I heard everything that was said! Now tell me who it was!"

Christine paled and for a moment I feared she would faint. She quickly recovered and stared at the young man before her, as if seeing him for the first time. Her face took on a look of complete wonder, and not for the first time, I was impressed at how many emotions the human face could take on. "Raoul," she said her voice so soft that even in the almost silent graveyard it was a struggle to make out her words. "Raoul, I have decided to tell you something very serious."

The Vicomte squared his shoulders manfully, as though he expected some type of physical blow from the opera singer. "Tell me Christine."

"You said you remember everything Papa use to tell us. If that is so, you must remember the story of the Angel of Music. You do remember that, don't you Raoul?"

The viscount nodded. "Of course Christine. How could I ever forget that?"

I tapped Holmes on the shoulder to tell him that they were talking about the Angel! But before I could make a sound, one of his cold fingers was against my lips signaling for me to be quiet. I swallowed my words and continued to watch the unfolding scene before me.

"Remember how Papa promised me that he would send me the Angel of Music when he went to Heaven?"

Raoul nodded. "He made that promise to you everyday Christine."

"Well Raoul, Papa is dead and he kept his promise. I have been visited by the Angel of Music."

I expected an exclamation of surprise from the viscount, but he did not seem phased by her confession. "I do not doubt it Christine. When you sang at the opera that night you sounded celestial. No human, without divine intervention, could have sung the way you did." The reverence he held for her was evident in his tone.

"Raoul, there is more I must tell you. I am not the only person who has heard the angel."

"Oh really? Who else has heard him?" The young de Chagny asked, his voice taking on a mollifying tone. He spoke to her as though he were speaking to a child, who longed to touch the moon.

"You have heard him Raoul."

The viscount started in shock. "I…I don't understand Christine. _I_ have heard him? When?"

"When you were listening outside my dressing room! I thought I was the only one who could hear him, but I guess I was mistaken. He visits me everyday in my dressing room and gives me lessons! You cannot imagine my surprise when you just admitted you heard him too!"

After a moment of silence, the viscount's laughter pealed through the air. "Oh Christine, that is grand! Bravo, excellent story! You have out done yourself my dear girl. For a moment, I honestly thought…"

Christine did not allow him to finish his statement. Instead she turned on him angrily and pushed him squarely in the chest. "How can you laugh? What do you think Raoul, that you did hear a man's voice in my dressing room?"

The viscount's laughter turned into chuckles. "Well…"  
"I cannot believe you Raoul! You my old playmate, my father's dear friend! You have changed Raoul, changed for the worse. Your brother has influenced you Monsieur le Victome! Despite what he says, I am an honest girl and I do _NOT_ lock myself in dressing rooms with men's voices! If you had opened the door you would have found no one in there save me."

"You are right," the viscount said, his laughter stopping abruptly. "I opened the door after you left and I saw no one."

"You see, I am telling the truth!"

"Christine," his tone softened and he grabbed her arm. "Christine, my darling Christine, I think someone is playing a very nasty trick on you."

Christine Daaé was about to reply, when suddenly, from out of no where, a violin began playing. Never in my life have I ever heard such beauty, such passion. The swells of music filled the night air, and if seemed as though the world stopped to listen to the divine sound. My eyes filled with tears when I heard the simple yet haunting melody.

I looked up at Sherlock Holmes and noticed that he too seemed affected by the music. He straightened up and stared at the star speckled sky. When the music ended and silence once again settled around us he ran his hands over his eyes and an ironical smile played across his lips. "Is there an Angel of Music?"

I did not reply for there was nothing to say. The same thought passed through my mind but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I once again peered through the darkness and watched the two figures.

Christine Daaé had here eyes fixed on the sky and her arms were held out in front of her. Her face was set in a look of absolute ecstasy. "Oh Angel!" Her voice was breathless and her face was flushed as though she had just experienced the most intense orgasm in her life.

Raoul de Chagny also noticed this change and he stiffened. When his face turned toward us, his eyes blazed with fire. "Your Angel is here Christine? Where is he?"

"I am here Monsieur!" A voice said from somewhere in the shadows.

At the sound of the voice my breath caught in my throat. It was the very voice that had spoken to me in the alleyway in Paris the night before. A paralysis of fear filled my body and I could not move a muscle. Memories of the previous night assaulted my mind, memories of the unseen presence, the amber eyes, the cold flesh against my own. I attempted to swallow but there was a lump in my throat making it nearly impossible. I remembered too the strange odor of decay that surrounded him and my urge to vomit. Suddenly, my zeal for catching the Phantom of the Opera was greatly reduced.

"Mackenzie! Mackenzie what is the matter?" Holmes's voice brought me back to reality.

I know when I answered him my voice shook. "It's him. From last night Holmes, it's him."

"So you remember me Mackenzie? How very sweet of you! I am glad I evoke the same amount of fear in you twenty four hours later."

My knees knocked and my bowels loosened. I grabbed my friend's arm tightly and refused to let go of it. "Where is he?"

"I'm here Mademoiselle!" He said, his voice sounded as though it was right next to my ear.

I spun around but there was no one. "Holmes…"

"No I'm here!" The voice sounded like it was directly behind Sherlock Holmes.

The detective turned in the direction from which the voice came, but when he saw no one, his face blanched and he looked around, his eyes focusing on every shadow. "Where are you Monsieur?"

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!" The voice continued to move, the speed of the change was disorienting, the voice was so hypnotizing that I began to loose touch with reality and fantasy. The Phantom, as he was known, knew how to manipulate the senses, making the impossible seem possible and visa versa.

"Holmes," I muttered attempting to break free from the trance the voice was quickly putting me in. "How can he be in so many places at once?"

The detective was silent for several minutes, his eyes scanning the area once again. "This way, quickly!" He whispered, pulling me roughly along. We were running toward an old church, and Holmes uttered one word, "ventriloquism." It took me a moment to realize he was answering the question I had asked him moments before.

When we were about five yards from the entranceway, Holmes stopped with a screeching halt, causing me to crash into him. "Holmes what the devil are y…" my words died in my throat when I saw the sight before me.


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty Three: A Descent into Madness: The Phantom's Mania **

I attempt to hide a smile as Raoul de Chagny bravely steps forward. He really is nothing more than a boy, but regardless he is an annoyance and must be eliminated.

"Come on Monsieur, don't be afraid! Come closer Monsieur!"

"Who are you?" What a childish question!

"I have been called the Angel of Death. Would you care to learn how I got mon nom?" My hands tingle as I imagine the feel of the soft skin on his neck underneath my hands. Then the exquisite numbness that shoots up my arm as the spinal cord cracks in two and a bit of bone hits a nerve in my hand, causing it to momentarily loose feeling.

"You do not scare me Monsieur!" He says as he steps closer to the tomb of Daddy Daaé.

"Raoul! Raoul be careful!" Her voice, her heavenly voice manages to relax me, and reduces the sensation I have to murder. She holds such power over me, as much as I hold over her.

"Stay away Christine! Get back!" He shouts as she rushes toward him. This little scene is growing more entertaining. My darling is trying to protect her little playmate from my wrath.

"Christine," I say her name softly, with reverence as one would whisper a prayer. That is what her name is, a prayer, a tribute to the Greek goddess Venus for her beauty and purity. She stops walking and looks at the sky expectantly. She believes her angel is speaking to her. "Christine step away from the viscount. You are much too pure, too beautiful to witness anything that might transpire here tonight."

"Don't listen to him Christine, whatever or whomever he is! Don't listen to anything he says!"

I must not laugh at the boy's ridiculous attempt to caution Christine. Doesn't he realize that she is already in my power? She can hear nothing at the moment but the sound of my voice and will do nothing but what I order her to.

"Christine, return to the Setting Sun and rest. Do not pay any attention to anyone that might try to stop you. Go to your room and sleep. Do this for me Christine, for your angel." It pains me to have to deceive her in such a fashion but I have no choice. I love her; I need her but cannot have her. The cruel gods above have denied me my one wish! I shake my head in effort to push my morose thoughts away. I have much more to do tonight than to dwell on my troubles.

Christine, here beautiful green eyes vacant, turns from me and begins walking in the direction of the inn. She has obeyed me once again. I force myself to ignore the pang of loneliness that enters my breast as I watch her leave but I know it is necessary. I do not want her to see the end of her precious Vicomte de Chagny!

"Christine! No! You monster, what have you done to her?" The boy's voice cracks with anger, but I cannot pity him. "What spell do you have her under?"

"I do not have her under any spell Monsieur!" I watch him for a few more moments before I growing tired of his sniveling. I must end him once and for all and I must do it now. "If you want to see me, Monsieur, go to the sacristy. I will be there waiting." I move towards the sacristy and am pleased when he follows. I stop at the alter and grab one of the skulls at my feet. I crouch down and watch him enter. He looks around but has no idea what danger he is near. I could end him now, with a simple flick of my wrist, but I decide to play with him before I kill him.

"You will see Christine again Monsieur! You will see her in Heaven!" I throw the skull at him and it hits him square in the chest, knocking him backward. "Come Monsieur, is that all you've got?" I leap from my hiding place and stand directly in front of him. I lift a large granite lid from one of the ancient caskets. "Prepare to say au revoir Monsieur." The lid is weightless as I allow it to slip from my fingers.


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty Four: A Gruesome Discovery**

"Holmes is he…" I could not finish my statement and instead stared at Raoul de Chagny who was lying in the doorway of the sacristy, the lower half of his body pinned beneath a large, heavy looking granite slab. The upper half of his body covered with decayed skulls.

The detective did not reply, but strode toward him, and knelt down next to him and placed his hand on the young man's neck.

"He's alive," the detective said grimly. He looked down at the slab, his face completely devoid of emotion. As I watched him study the situation, I briefly wondered if he was that intent when he had to free me from the rubble under the opera house.

"Mackenzie, you must help me," he said looking into my face.

"Sure what do you need me to do?" I asked walking over to him.

He stood and put both hands on either side of the granite slab. "When I lift this, I need you to pull de Chagny backward." Without another word, Holmes lifted the slab off the slab off the viscount. His straining muscles nearly tore his shirt and the look of intense concentration made him look extremely rugged and sexy. "All right Mackenzie," he said, his voice hoarse with strain, "pull him back."

I glanced down and saw the multitude of skulls on top of de Chagny. I certainly had no desire to touch them. _He wants me to put my hand underneath all these skulls to grab a fop? Is he for real? This defiantly cannot be sanitary! Lord only knows the health risks, I could come down with hepatitis or something. _

"Mackenzie, now please! I cannot hold this much longer," there was a touch of impatience and irritation in his voice which sent me into action. I defiantly didn't want him to be pissed at me.

I closed my eyes and plunged my hand into the hill of skulls _this is so disgusting_; the feeling of brittle bone beneath my hands turned my stomach into Barnum and Bailey's three-ring circus. _I know I'm gonna be sick!_ When I finally grabbed hold of de Changy's shoulders I pulled him toward me with all my strength.

_Damnit this guy is heavy! _

_What do you expect Mac, you're pulling dead weight! Just shut up and get him out from underneath those bones!_

I kept my eyes shut and pulled until I heard a crash and sharply expelled breath. I stopped backpedaling and opened my eyes, only to see an extremely sweaty Sherlock Holmes bending at the waist, hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. The sweat caused some of the red paint from the wig he was wearing to adhere to his forehead, making him look like a young boy on Halloween who was unsuccessful in removing all the greasepaint he was wearing.

When he finally caught his breath, he looked up at me; his face streaked with mud and sweat, and flashed me a brief smile. Instantly I thought of Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones and my heart beat more wildly in my chest.

_Okay Mac, stay calm…think of something repulsive so you don't get turned on. Think of those skulls you just touched and the number of bugs that might be underneath them._

That thought did it and I suddenly felt sick, my sexual arousal instantly forgotten. I allowed my eyes to rove around and they settled on Holmes who was making his way toward me and the unconscious fop, with feline like agility and grace.

"Well done," he murmured when he passed by me. He once again knelt next to the man on the floor and began feeling his legs and chest. After several minutes, the detective shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe it!"

"What can't you believe?" I asked curiously.

"He has no broken bones. Of course Watson will have to examine him when we get him back to the Setting Sun, but I do not think he suffered any major injuries."

"That's good," I said without any enthusiasm. Common sense was finally kicking in and I realized that Holmes and I would have to carry Raoul de Chagny back to the inn, while trudging through snow that was ankle deep. This was going to be fun! "How pray tell do you expect to get him back to the Setting Sun? I don't see any hansom cabs around," I said, hoping my fears about having to walk with an unconscious guy slung over my shoulder, were ill founded.

"We carry him," Holmes replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to say.

I smiled grimly. "Oh yes we carry him. How stupid of me not to realize it!" I know that sarcasm oozed from my words, but I was cold and tired, certainly not in the mood to carry someone who probably weighs at least one hundred and fifty pounds several miles in the snow. "All right genius, how are we going to do this?"

"You want his head?"

"WHAT!" I couldn't believe my ears. Holmes did NOT just ask me that.

He cocked his head to the side and his eyebrows were raised. "I simply suggested that you hold his head while I support the rest of him. Did I say something wrong?"

I laughed at his confusion as well as at myself. _Wow! He could have phrased THAT a little better. Mac get your mind OUT of the gutter NOW! _ "Sorry Holmes," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. The look in his eyes signaled me to explain my outburst of surprise but there was no way in hell I was gonna do that. "Yeah I'll carry his upper body," I said trying to appear stronger than I was.

With another queer look, Holmes lifted the lower half of Raoul de Chagny as if the man weighed no more than a feather. With a little bit of a struggle, I managed to support Raoul's upper body and we exited the sacristy.

As we trudged thought the snow (which was now calf deep and was still falling) I tried several times to draw Holmes into conversation. These attempts however proved to be a waste of time because when he deigned to answer me, it was with a grunt or some other unintelligible sound. He was wrapped in his own thoughts, none of which he was willing to share with me. Bored and tired I began talking to the unconscious viscount.

When we finally reached the Setting Sun, Raoul de Chagny finally began to come to. When we entered the establishment, we carried the now awakening viscount up three flights of stairs and dropped him unceremoniously on Watson's bed.

Once we made sure Watson would take care of the boy, I followed Holmes back down the stairs into the lobby, where he slumped into the small sofa in front of a dying fire. Without bothering to remove his snow covered coat, he removed a cigarette from his case, lit it and inhaled the smoke gratefully.

Not knowing what else to do, I flopped down next to him, thankful for the meager warmth the dying fire was providing.

"Man it feels good to sit down," I said to no one in particular.

"You should get into some dry cloths and get a good night's sleep," Holmes said without looking at me. "I don't want you to catch your death of cold."

I smiled slightly. It felt good that he was concerned for my well being. "You should do the same Holmes."

"I need some time alone to think." There was my dismissal.

I didn't take the bait. "What are you going to think about?"

"None of your concern," was his curt reply.

When I realized that my presence was pissing him off, I stood and stretched. "You're right, I do need some sleep. Hey Holmes, can you promise me something?"

"Hmmm?"

"Look, just promise me that you won't beat yourself up too much about not catching this Phantom. I don't wanna wake up tomorrow morning and find you still sitting here. All right?"

"Good night," was the only thing he said to me.

I walked past him and messed his hair affectionately. Then without looking back at him, I once again mounted the stairs and entered the small room we were all sharing.

"How's de Chagny?" I asked Watson when I saw him.

"He's fine," the doctor replied, putting away his medical things. "I brought him to his room, gave him a sedative and told him I'd see how he was in the morning." When he looked up at me, he instantly frowned with disapproval. "Mackenzie! Go put on some dry clothing before you catch pneumonia."

"I'm fine Doc," I said with a slight smile. "Thanks for your concern though."

Watson's eyes narrowed in anger. "As your physician, I order you to get into dry clothing this instant. And where is Holmes?" He added as an after thought.

I grudgingly listened to him and went into the bathroom where I changed into my nightgown. "He's downstairs in the lobby, sitting in front of a dying fire, beating himself up over what he thinks is a failure," I said as I exited the bathroom. "Typical behavior."

Watson shook his head and settled on one of the small chairs. He motioned for me to sit opposite him with the other.

"Would you mind telling me what transpired this evening?" The doctor asked when I sat down in the chair he indicated. "You and Holmes brought young de Chagny here, and then darted off again without a word of explanation. When the lad awoke, his only concern was Mademoiselle Daaé and I could get nothing out of him as to how he came to be unconscious."

I chuckled. "Very sorry about that Doc," I said with a smile. "It's a long story, but a fascinating one at that. Lemme start at the beginning. Holmes and I hurried to the graveyard to keep watch on Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daaé to see if either of them would mention the Angel of Music…"


	36. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty Five: Uncertainties: Holmes's Musings **

Everything that happened tonight should have been avoided! The Phantom of the Opera should have been caught, young de Chagny's life should not have been endangered and the entire matter should have been cleared up.

I have been as blind as a mole this entire investigation! The amount of blunders I have made is ridiculously high! This entire affair should have been finished in three days at the most. It is going on a fortnight and still I am no closer to a solution! I have recently made a connection between the management's Phantom and Mademoiselle Daaé's Angel of Music. The connection should have been made long before! Now that I know they are one and the same person, I am still no closer to apprehending the blackguard. Why? The question that constantly preys on my mind. If I admit the answer, millions of more whys make themselves known, confounding me and muddling my reasoning even more.

How I curse the day I ever met Mackenzie Sterling! Before she unceremoniously appeared in my life, I was able to remain focused on an investigation; I understood how my mind worked and was able to keep it from idly roving and focusing on things that were unimportant.

Now that she is here, my mind is confronted with an internal problem, one that prevents it from examining the case at hand. Why is she able to force me to loose a train of thought with merely a glance in my direction? Why does my heart pound in my chest when she is near? These questions have replaced who is this Phantom and why does he stalk the opera house!

Tonight, standing beside her in the shadow of the tree, my observation of de Chagny and Daaé was lessened because all I could focus on was the gentle curve of her neck as she attempted to see past the circumference of the tree trunk; the slight pressure against my right arm, caused my her leaning against me; the feeling of utter helplessness that came over me when I could not ease her fear of the unseen voice. All of these things clouded my senses, making me react slower than normal.

It's not logical! None of this is logical! The way I feel around her is not logical! I am a logician, a calculating person; my reasoning should not be interrupted by one woman. I should feel nothing toward her; I should treat Mackenzie Sterling as I treat her friend, with contempt and the occasional acknowledging nod. She has done nothing for me, save cause me confusion and anxiety!

And yet I know that is not true. She comforted me while I was in the throes of one of my nightmares. She succeeded in doing what nothing, save the cocaine, could do. She managed to soothe my inner demons, stop the terrors of my past from assaulting me. I felt safer with her arms around me than if I had two revolvers and one hundred of Stapleton's dogs.

But why? Why did her embrace make me feel secure? What is it that I am feeling? If I could deduce this strange emotion, I could put it aside and never think of it again. But I need to know, need to understand it first.

My train of reasoning has failed me thus far but I am confident that given enough time I will be able to understand this emotion, forget it and return to my former calculating self. Now for more practical matters. What concern does this Phantom have for Mademoiselle Daaé's career? This is quite a three pipe problem.


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty Six: The Light Bulb Goes Off**

"We found Raoul de Chagny lying in the entrance of the sacristy, the lower half of his body was pinned against the ground by a large granite slab. The upper half of his body was covered by decaying skulls.

'I swore the guy was dead, but Holmes assured me that he was alive and we pulled him out from beneath the rubble. Holmes checked him out, to ensure no bones were broken and then we brought him back here," I concluded.

"Fascinating," Watson said at length. "I am surprised that he did not sustain any serious injuries. You were hurt worse in your accident."

I nodded. "I guess someone somewhere was looking out for him. Personally, I'm not as lucky. Things just sorta happen to me and I can't understand why.

'I mean even tonight. Tonight my entire belief system was shaken. When the Phantom spoke, his words were menacing and meant to frighten, but his voice…I swear there was something celestial in that tone. How can someone as terrifying as the Phantom, have the voice of an angel?"

Dr. Watson smiled and opened his hands as if to say 'I don't have the answer for you.' "Mackenzie, although it has been some time since my school years, I do remember the story of Lucifer, the fallen angel."

"Lucifer, fallen angel…" I said leaping to my feet. An idea was very slowly forming in my mind. "Doc, if you haven't come up with a solution!"

"What?"

"You said Lucifer was a fallen angel right?" I asked, hurrying to the side of my bed. I reached into my carpet bag and pulled out my jeans .

"Yes, but you don't seem to…"

"Why did Lucifer fall?" I asked not allowing him to finish his statement. "He fell because of sin. God banished him to hell because he was sinful, isn't that right?"

The doctor nodded and continued to stare at me as I hopped up and down the small room, struggling to get my jeans on. (I had to continue moving because otherwise I might have lost my train of thought). "I see you know your Old Testament, but what does it have to do with the current problem?"

I smiled and finally managed to pull on my sweat pants. I grabbed my sneakers from the carpet bag and pushed my feet into them. My hands were shaking with excitement, making it difficult to tie the laces. "Love is something holy right? Don't people say that when you love another, you see the face of God?"

Watson nodded but kept his silence. The guy must've thought I lost all of my senses!

"Well," I continued, my tongue tripping over itself to get the words out of my mouth, "love is one thing, but lust is another. To lust after someone is considered a sin by the Catholic Church. I'm sure it's the same with the Protestant Church, but that doesn't concern me right now. It is a sin to dream about someone and to fantasize about them," I felt my face blush when I realized I was guilty of committing the sinful acts I just mentioned. "If you love someone, and they belong to someone else, through marriage or courtship, it is wrong to want them sexually. 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife' is one of the Ten Commandments…"

"I'm not sure I follow what you are talking about," Watson admitted.

To be honest, I wasn't sure if what I was saying made any sense. I just spoke as the ideas entered my mind; I didn't stop and worry about their coherency. "It'll all be clear in a minute," I assured him. I successfully tied one of my sneakers and attempted to repeat the action on the other, "Raoul de Chagny loves Christine Daaé and I think it is safe to assume that Christine Daaé loves him. Since they both love each other, in a sense Christine belongs to Raoul and Raoul to her.

'Now, what if we add another potential lover to this pretty little equation? The Phantom! What if he also loves Christine? They might have been lovers at one time, and perhaps he fell from her favor. If that is true, I think it is also safe to assume that this Phantom is still in love or at least lust with her. That being said," I finally finished tying my other cleat, 'we have two very systematic equations. Raoul de Chagny, current boyfriend, plus Christine Daaé equals a happy couple. The Phantom plus an argument with Christine equals the end of a relationship, and a fallen angel. Or rather in this case, a fallen Phantom. Make sense so far Doc?"

"Let me see if I understand you. You think that the Phantom and Christine might have been in love at one time. The Phantom, whoever he is, fell from her favor and their relationship ended. Mademoiselle Daaé fell in love with her childhood friend, but the Phantom is still in love with her. Am I correct?"

I nodded; happy I was making some sense. I was really on a role! "Now, to take this whole Heaven and Hell, fallen angel analogy one step further! God banished Lucifer to hell, a dark gloomy place, located beneath the Earth. The Phantom's lair is said to be in the cellars of the Opera House, another dark place away from people. Perhaps this Phantom knows the story of Lucifer and considers himself to personify the mythological character. He might even view Christine as God and loves her but does not know how to win her back."

"I must admit," Watson said with a small smile, "your theory does hold together but it does seem…"

"Great!" My hand was already on the doorknob. "I'm gonna go tell Holmes!" I was out the door before Watson could even utter a sound of protest.

**Holmes**

What are possible motives for men to commit crimes? Wealth, fear, desperation, property, jealously and love.

What are the facts so far? One: Raoul de Chagny loves or thinks he loves Christine Daaé. Two: Christine Daaé was de Chagny's childhood friend. Three: Christine Daaé is being visited by whom she thinks is the 'Angel of Music' but is, in reality, the Phantom of the Opera. Four: The Phantom is extremely strict and forbids Christine from seeing Raoul de Chagny. Five: The Phantom tries to kill Raoul de Chagny.

What thread runs through these circumstances? What link can connect these seemingly unconnected events? What could motivate all of the players in this drama? Wealth, jealously and love.

Wealth does not seem to be much of a factor, for there has only been one attempt on young de Chagny's life and no kidnapping attempts thus far. If obtaining wealth was the Phantom's motivating factor, he would not concern himself with Raoul de Chagny. He would instead concern himself with the elder de Chagny. There is also the fact that the management pays the Phantom a decent amount of francs every month. No, obtaining wealth is certainly not the driving force behind these crimes.

Jealously, I've seen enough crimes where that is the driving force behind them. The Phantom could be jealous of young de Chagny, hence the attempt on his life. That would be fine if Mademoiselle Daaé was not involved. Could the Phantom, whomever he may be, have an interest in Mademoiselle Daaé? If so, then why pursue her in such a queer fashion?

The other alternative is love. One of the worst emotions humans have ever been made to feel. Love, ha! Turns logical men into blubbering idiots and honest men into thieves and murderers. Nothing good ever comes from that emotion. If that is indeed the driving force behind these crimes, then I pity everyone who is involved. I would not be the least bit surprised if love is the motive.

But I am theorizing before I have data. A capital mistake for one begins to twist facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts. No, I must wait and see how things progress, collect evidence and clues and then put the chain of events together, logically, link by link.

Now where the deuce did I put my tobacco…


	38. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Betrayal **

My sneakers clicked loudly on the stone floor of the hotel hallway. My mind was going a mile a minute, racing from one thought to the other. Could my far-fetched (yes I will admit that my theory is far fetched) theory actually be right? What will Holmes say? Will he laugh, will he listen?

_Mac, relax! You survived that head comment, so you should be able to survive anything! Hopefully he forgot about that. _

_Yeah, tough luck. That man has a memory like flypaper! I'm sure he just stored that comment away in his mind for future reference. Perhaps he'll ask me about my burst of laughter in the graveyard again. What the hell will I say to him? Obviously I can't tell him what I thought he meant. Well I could but I would shake the very roots of his Victorian morality so badly that he'd never be the same. Although it could be interesting to see his reaction…_

"What the devil are you doing walking around dressed like that?"

His voice brought me out of my reverie so quickly that it felt like my mind slammed into a brick wall at full speed. My eyes instantly scanned his face for some show of emotion. There was none.

"I will ask you again," he said as though speaking to a petulant child. "What are you doing walking around dressed like that?"

I cleared my throat and noticed for the first time how scandalously I was dressed. I was wearing nothing save a chemise and a pair of sweat pants. My face caught fire. "Um…I was looking for you!"

"Really?" His tone was one of skeptism and disbelief.

"Yes," I replied quickly. _What was he trying to imply? _

"Wearing nothing save what you have on?"

"Yes damn it! I was in a hurry to tell you something!" _Why didn't he believe me? _

He folded his arms over his chest and his keen eyes bore into mine. "You do know that I spoke with your friend earlier this evening?"

"Oh cool," I said, trying to act nonchalant. _Why is he telling me this? What does he have to say? What the hell did I do now?_

"We had a long conversation." His eyebrows were drawn together in a straight line and his eyes glowed steel embers.

"Really? That's cool. I didn't think you guys hit it off." I was suddenly growing hot under the collar. What did Becky say to him to make him this angry with me? I once again looked into his eyes and noticed confusion there too. What happened?

"Yes we 'hit it off' as you so nicely phrased it. We hit it off so well that she told me all about comments you two have made; comments you have made."

_Fuck! She didn't betray me; she didn't tell him how I feel about him! She couldn't! She's like my sister! She'd never…but then again she is totally pissed at me. She thinks that everything that has happened to us is my fault! This would be the perfect way for her to get back at me, for some vendetta has against me. What am I going to do?_

"Holmes, please let me explain--"

"There are no explanations necessary! I cannot believe you! I can't believe that you would even think…" He couldn't even finish, such was the venom and disgust he was feeling. He shook his head angrily. "I cannot understand…" He angrily pushed past me, knocking me against one of the walls.

"Holmes! Holmes wait!" I hurried after him, but he turned and faced me, his features set in such a look of utter horror and disbelief that I stopped in my tracks.

"Stay away from me!" He roared. "Just stay away from me!"

I stood, too stunned to move or speak and watched him vanish into the darkened hallway. The only sound of him entering the room was the slamming of a door which echoed throughout the hotel like a gun shot.

Then suddenly, everything grew quiet and still. I felt like a deep sea diver, the blackness was like the ocean surrounding me. I was drowning, my lifeline just snapped and I was left free-floating in the ocean of my despair.

My legs felt as though they would give out any minute and I stumbled forward, clawing the darkness, trying to get air into my lungs. My heart felt as though it had stopped beating and I felt cold and numb all over my body. I managed to somehow make it to the couch in the lobby. When I flopped down on it, all grief and anger crashed down on me at once, and it felt as though an anvil was dropped on my chest, crushing my heart under its massive weight.

I'm not sure what hurt more; my best friend's betrayal or Holmes's disgust at my feelings for him. One jabbed the knife into my heart and the other continued to twist it. I must have sobbed myself to sleep, because the next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake.

"What?" I asked, refusing to open my eyes. Memories from the previous night were still fresh in my mind and the only thing I wanted was to drink myself into oblivion.

"Mackenzie, what's the matter?" It was Watson.

"Doc, please go away. I'm not in the mood," I groaned. I rolled over on the small sofa and faced the empty fireplace.

"Mackenzie, what happened? Holmes came upstairs last night, slamming doors, his face set in a scowl like I've never seen. You left in a hurry and I didn't see you all night. I began--"

"Do you really wanna know what happened?" I asked, sitting up. I couldn't swallow the belligerent pitch my voice took on.

The doctor nodded. "Certainly, I want to help you."

"Fine, all right Doc, here help me with this. Last night when I was talkin' to you, Becky was talking to Holmes. She sold me out, backstabbed me, betrayed me! She told Holmes my feelings for him, the fact that I-I _desired_ him. Then, when I came down here to tell him about my theory, h-he…" I choked on my sobs and could not continue. I tried to hold back my tears but I couldn't. I lost control and began sobbing.

Watson took me into his arms and held me tightly. He gently rubbed my back in attempt to calm me. "Everything is all right," Watson whispered. His tone made me realize he knew what I was going to say, before I stopped speaking. He held me tighter, and his embrace told me he understood what I was feeling.

"Watson, why? Is it so bad that I love him? Did I do something wrong by falling for him?"

"I can't answer that Mackenzie, no matter how much I would like to," he whispered. I hugged him tighter, needing some sort of comfort.

"What is worse than Holmes hating me, worse than his disgust at my feelings, is the fact that my 'sister' betrayed me like that. How could she?"

"What the hell are you accusing me of?" Becky's voice broke into the conversation.  
Suddenly a rage that I could not understand filled my body, my vision turned to red and I wanted nothing more than to have my hands wrapped around her throat, choking her to death. Watson must've felt my body tense because he held me even tighter.

"Mademoiselle," his tone was cordial, but laced with ice. "I think it would be best if you left."

"Roar Mac! You're going after Dr. Watson now too?" She jested, completely ignoring Watson's request. _I'm gonna kill her! Slow and painful…she'll understand all my pain._

"Please leave!" Watson growled, his chivalry gone. "Now is not the time for your lurid jokes."

"Yeah whatever," Becky said with a laugh. "I don't know what she's wailing about, but I'm sure it aint a big deal."

I raised my face from where it was buried in Watson's shoulder and glared hard at my best friend. The anger I was feeling must've radiated from me, for she took a step backward.

"Goddamnit! This is all your fault," I growled, keeping my voice deliberately low. "We have been friends for years and although we've had our occasional spats and disagreements…" I swallowed trying to keep my temper somewhat at bay, "I have never once betrayed your confidence and trust."

"No shit Sherlock," she said sarcastically.

That did it! I pushed Watson away from me with such force that he gasped. I leapt to my feet and in less than the time it takes to write, I had Becky pinned against one of the walls of the hotel, my hand tightly clutching her throat. "I can't believe what you have done! I've witness backstabbers in my life, you know that as well as I, but to think that you of all people--"

"What are you talking about?" She asked the nervousness she felt at having my hand around her throat was evident in her tone.

"You know full well what I am talking about," I spat. "Last night you told Holmes everything! You told him that I desired him! That I am in love with him! How could you?"

Suddenly laughter filled my best friend's blue eyes. "Last night I just told him what you were laughing at when he asked you if you wanted the viscount's head. He was really shocked and a little disgusted, but I think he'll get over it. As for the fact that you're in love with him, I think you just made that very clear, to everyone in this room and especially to the man in question."

I felt my face catch fire when I understood the meaning of her words. My heart suddenly pounded against my ribs, my legs once again grew weak. I swallowed several times, and when I finally found my voice, it was nothing more than a harsh whisper. "Y-you don't mean what you just said right?" I asked looking into my best friend's eyes for some sign that she was joking. I saw none.

"You might wanna take your hand from my throat and put it else where," she said, smiling wickedly. I caught her meaning and allowed my hand to drop.

Very slowly, I turned around only to find the room which had been empty before, was now crawling with people, all eyes on me. Standing near the sofa was a very pale-faced and terrified Sherlock Holmes. His mouth hung open in disbelief, his eyes filled with trepidation, anger and confusion. The tension could have been cut with a knife. There was nothing I could say or do; the balance of the friendship we had established was thrown off completely; the damage irrevocable. All that was left was for him to publicly throw me out of his life. If he did that, I knew my own life would not be worth living.

I swallowed several times. "Holmes…Holmes…I know I've startled you, possibly destroyed the friendship that we had. I know you're probably shocked by my revelation, especially in the way you heard it, and I'm sure you wish nothing more than for it to disappear into blessed oblivion. However I cannot change what has been said. But please, for mercy's sake, hate me, strike me, or simply walk away, but please don't just stand there. I cannot bare your silence!" I could not hide the pleading tone in my voice, could not hide the anguish I was feeling. His continued silence was like a dagger in my heart, the mixed emotions in those grey eyes simply added to my agony.

He remained silent; his handsome face looked as though it was carved from stone. His eyes continued to bore into mine and they seemed to ask one question: why.

I averted my eyes, unable to answer his unspoken question.

**Holmes**

I had come to apologize. My behavior toward her was deplorable last night. I over reacted, in fact in retrospect her misunderstanding was rather humorous. I had come downstairs to search for her, and I found…

God help me! I found her pinning her friend against the wall, confessing her love for me. How is this possible? She cannot love me, it is not logical! Love is not a logical emotion, it reduces intelligent men to imbeciles and blackguards. How is it possible that someone feels this emotion toward me?

I am unlovable. Father made that perfectly clear to me that night so many years ago. That night when he entered my bedchamber, drunk and bleary eyed. He pulled the covers from my body. He screamed at me, cursed me as an unlovable thing. I was the root of all his problems, the reason for Mother's distance; I was not worthy of the clothes on my back; he pulled my night shirt from me, tarring it from my small body. He said a special type of punishment was reserved for unlovable children and climbed onto my bed, his face wild and contorted. He told me no one would love me when he was through, when he pinned me against the mattress, when he…

Father, that wicked man…it is his fault I am so utterly lost! I am unlovable, and yet here this young woman is, saying how she loves me. It is not rational! Where is my logic when I need it? Where is the intelligence I pride myself on having? The intelligence that Watson chronicles and publicizes. What the deuce do I do?

She wants me to speak, but what can I say? Can I tell her she must be mistaken? Can I tell her it is not possible for her, for anyone to love me? Do I explain the reason why? No, I cannot do that! I cannot say how it is impossible to love me. She would turn from me forever, she would confide in Watson and he too would leave me. No I cannot bear that! Cannot bear having Watson walk away from me.

Damn it! I cannot stand the thought of having Mackenzie despise me! I cannot bear to see the look of disgust and utter loathing that will enter her eyes, the same look that was in Father's eyes. What do I do?

Rationalize! Yes, I must rationalize the situation; I must logically examine her words and actions; her actions prior to her confession. Yes, perhaps she really does not love me; perhaps she is speaking of another. She said my name, which doesn't mean anything. I am after all the one who is confused; perhaps she pitied me and tried to apologize for making me hear such a confession. Yes, that is a comforting thought, the thought that those words were not meant for me.

If that thought is so comforting, why am I suddenly feeling a deep hurt? Why? I must leave; I must compose myself and examine the situation. I must leave and I must leave now…

**Mac**

My heart broke when I saw him turn from me and shakily make his way down the corridor from which he came. It was true, I had just ruined everything. He despised me, perhaps loathed the very sight of me. If that were not true why else would he leave?

_Maybe you startled him._

I did more than startle him. Everything he thought he knew about me, his trust in me, was suddenly gone. I had betrayed his trust, and there was nothing I could do to regain it.

"Mac?" It was my best friend. She put a hand on my shoulder and repeated my name.

"Becky, leave me alone," I said brushing her hand off me. I began to walk toward the door.

"Mac, where are you going? Mac wait up!"

"I'm going to collect myself and try to figure out a way to fix the huge blunder I just made," I said without turning around.

"Then lemme come with you!"

"No! Becky, I need to be by myself!" I hurried out of the hotel and stepped into the frigid winter air. I had no idea where I would go, but I knew I had to go somewhere far enough away so I could think. I stopped walking for a moment and thought of where I could be alone. The graveyard!

Like a damned soul, I began walking toward the graveyard, hoping to find some solace and answers to my questions.


	39. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty Eight: Confusion and Confessions**

_Mackenzie, you screwed this whole situation up. You had to make that comment to Becky right then and there didn't you? You couldn't wait till you were in private. No, why would you? Why would you discuss something like that in private when you could totally embarrass yourself and Holmes?_

I shook my head, trying to clear the myriad thoughts that were assaulting my brain. I stopped walking and took in my surroundings. I found myself near the very tree that played such a key part in our adventures last night. Suddenly my mind focused on me leaning against him, for both warmth and comfort. If only I could go back to that moment, I would change everything.

_Going back in time is impossible Mac. Deal with it_. I chuckled when I realized how absurd that sounded. Here I was stuck in the nineteenth century and still denying the possibility of time travel. Some things will never change!

When I saw Monsieur Daaé's grave, I walked over to it and knelt down in the snow. I crossed myself and bent my head. I muttered a quick prayer, apologizing for watching his daughter in prayer. I also apologized for inadvertently running across his grave while in pursuit of the phantom. So lost in thought/prayer was I that I didn't hear the faint crunching of footsteps in the snow and was quite surprised to find a hand on my shoulder.

I jumped a little and looked up, to find myself staring into the face of Christine Daaé. "Bonjour Mademoiselle," I said standing and brushing snow from my knees. I was slightly embarrassed that she found me praying at her father's grave. "I…I thought it would be best, if I apologized to him. Last night, I accidentally ran across his grave."

"That is very kind of you," she said offering me a slight smile. "I asked your friends where you were but they said they didn't know."

"Yeah," I said averting my eyes, "I kinda ran off without telling anyone. How did you find me?"

The soprano laughed. "I saw your footprints in the snow."

I smiled self-deprecatingly. "I guess I'm not too good with stealth. I just need some time alone," I said, hoping that she would not be offended by my dismissal.

"I just wanted to thank you personally for what you did last night. You save dear Raoul's life."

"Mademoiselle, really I don't understand--"

"Shh, no need to act like you do not understand. Dr. Watson told me everything. You were very brave."

"There is no need to thank me Mademoiselle," I said quietly. "Now if you will please excuse me," I turned away from her, hoping she'd leave me alone.

I had no such luck. "Please wait!"

I turned around with an exasperated sigh. "Yes Mademoiselle?"

"You seem troubled," she observed. "You do not seem like yourself."

"You do not know me Mademoiselle! Do not presume to judge me!" I replied hotly. When I heard her gasp, my anger dissipated. After all, it wasn't her fault that my life was going downhill. "I apologize Mademoiselle; I did not mean to bark at you. I am just having some difficulties, that's all."

She tilted her head innocently. "Does your foul mood have to do with what happened this morning?"

I raised my eyebrows in shock. "You weren't there! How do you know about that?"

She blushed slightly. "When I inquired as to your whereabouts, Becky, I believe that is her name, told me what had happened, why you ran off, also why I couldn't find Mr. Holmes."

"Christ!" I growled, kicking at the snow. "Now everyone knows! I didn't want him to find out that way! I didn't want him to find out at all. He probably hates me, despises me, never wants to see me again." When I realized I was talking aloud, I instantly changed the subject. My own failings and misgivings were not the concern of Christine Daaé. "Sorry. Is there something else you wanted?"

She hesitated for several moments, staring at the snow which surrounded her white ankles. "I…I didn't just follow you here to thank you, although I am very grateful for what you and Mr. Holmes did for Raoul," she confessed, her eyes still adverted.

"Then why did you follow me?"

"I know you think it was my Angel that tried to kill dear Raoul."

"That is the most likely hypothesis," I replied dryly.

Suddenly she rushed forward and clasped my hands tightly in her own. "Please do not believe that! My Angel, although very strict, is not a murderer! He is kind and harmless, sensitive. He cares deeply about me and would never hurt me."

I sighed and extricated myself from her grasp. "Mademoiselle, I cannot believe what you say. Your so-called Angle attempted to kill me!"

"What?" There was a look of complete horror in her eyes.

Quickly I told her about what had happened in the cellars of the opera house, told her about the Phantom's warning. I also informed her as to my confrontation with her 'Angel' in the alleyway.

"You must be mistaken! My Angel would not do this!" She said, her voice rising in intensity. She once again grasped my hands and forced me to stare into her wild green eyes. "You cannot believe that! He would never harm anyone!"

"Listen to me Christine," I said using her first name. Although she was several years my senior, I felt as though I was speaking to a child. "I want to tell you something, and I am going to say this to you because I consider you my friend.

'Look, I know how much you want to believe in this Angel of Music, and I can't say I blame you! But, I just want you to be careful all right? And the minute you think there is anything amiss; Holmes and I are but a telegram away." I said, hoping to impress my sense of worry and distrust into her mind. I was beginning to freeze and I looked down and remembered why. I was outside, clad in nothing but a nightgown, jeans and sneakers. Hopefully Christine would leave quickly!

The soprano nodded and gave me a brief hug. "I will be careful, my friend."

We then went our separate ways, she back to the Setting Sun and I further into the graveyard.

Despite the cold I knew I could not return to the inn. I had to figure out just what to say to Holmes, to try and patch the gaping crater between us.

_Hey Holmes, how are you? Look, I just wanted to say that I don't love you because it makes you uncomfortable. See, so can everything be cool again?_

_Lame, lame, lame! Okay Mac, what are you going to do just go up to him and say that? _

I sighed and continued to walk aimlessly, never anticipating the events which were to follow, events which would turn my world completely upside down.

**Holmes**

"Watson, go away!"

"Yes, but Holmes--"

"I am not in the mood for one of your lectures. Allow me some time alone."

Watson continued to pound on the bedroom door, but I ignored him. I could have no distractions. Two problems weighed on my mind, both of extremely pressing nature. One was the case at hand, and the other was Mackenzie.

She loves me. I looked at the problem from every angle, examined her words and actions and come to the conclusion that I was indeed the man whom she was talking about. My maxim once again proved to be correct: 'when you eliminate the impossible, what ever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'

But what can I do? I cannot allow myself to love her; I do not feel those emotions. I have blocked them out of my mind. The only woman I ever cared about committed adultery and was murdered. My Father impressed the fact upon me that I am unlovable.

And yet, she loves me. What can I do? I could tell her that she must be mistaken, that it is impossible to love me. But I know her nature; it is similar to my own. She will question me; demand to know why I deem it impossible. Then I would have to explain. But I cannot do that. She will turn from me forever, she will never touch me. She will consider me tainted, as indeed I most probably am. Worst than that she will tell Watson, and he too would turn away from me, not because of what happened to me, but because he did not hear it directly from me.

I could tell him. No I cannot. I cannot bear the look of pity and sorrow and anger that will be in his eyes. He will never treat me the same. But yet I must do something! If I tell Mackenzie, I chance loosing both her and Watson. If I tell Watson, I still chance loosing him and Mackenzie. Either way I am damned!

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My mind was made up. "Watson!"

The bedroom door opened and my friend and roommate for several years entered. His face was creased with worry. "Holmes, are you all right?"

I shook my head. "No old fellow, I'm not. I am confused Watson, utterly confused. My thoughts are muddled."

"It's what Mackenzie said, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Yes, but not only that old boy. Not only that."

He raised his eyebrows in confusion. "What else is troubling you?"

I took a deep breath to calm my unsteady nerves. "Watson, you would not call me an affectionate man, would you?"

My friend looked puzzled but he answered honestly. "No Holmes I would not."

"Nor would you call me a loving man."

"Correct."

I swallowed because suddenly my airways seemed very constricted. "Would you call me unlovable?"

My question caught Watson off-guard. He started and stared at me as though I had lost my senses. "Holmes I don't seem to follow--"

"Do not reason! Just answer the question!" I barked, with a touch of my old impatience.

He hesitated for several moments. "Holmes, I would not say you are unlovable. Indeed, you are not because if you were, how could Mackenzie love you?"

"That is precisely my conundrum Watson!" I stood and began to pace. "I am unlovable! I was taught that in my youth. I was a mere boy of six when I learned that lesson!"

I stopped pacing and noted Watson's expression. It was one of open surprise and curiosity. His expression brought back the memory of when I first told him something of my past. A twinge of fear brushed across my heart. What I want to tell him…it could drive him away from me. Can I risk that? Does this girl mean enough to me; is my confusion so great that I must risk loosing my dear Boswell?

"Holmes, come sit down. You look as though you are going to faint." Watson's voice broke into my thoughts. I looked down at my hands and noticed they were shaking horribly. I passed a hand over my brow and felt that it was damp with perspiration.

"Mackenzie must be mistaken Watson," I said. I chose my words slowly and deliberately. "I know my statement sounds ridiculous, and I am going to explain myself. However," I said lowering my voice. I stared at him for a long moment, attempting to remember his features and expression as they were. "I fear after I make my confession, you may never want to see me again."

**Watson**

I will admit I was surprised at my friend's outburst. It was not the first time that Holmes had said those words to me, but they were never spoken with such gravity. Even when he told me his horrible past, his body language did not betray the inner turmoil he was feeling, indeed, he seemed in control of his emotions until he related the very end of his narrative. This time however, outwardly he was without any confidence.

"My dear Holmes," I said in my best physician's voice, a voice which usually calms patients. "You have nothing to fear. I would never leave you."

He shook his head and smiled grimly. "You say that now Watson, but I fear you will change your mind. Everyone else has."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Others knew of his confession he was about to make? "Holmes you have my word…"

He raised a hand to silence me. "Watson, pray do not make promises that you are unable to keep. I have already told you about my Father, a drunken wicked man. He blamed me for everything that happened in our family, and I suppose most of it was my fault, on some level. He blamed me for Mother's distance from him, hated me for it. I suppose he had every right to," he ceased speaking and his eyes took on a far away gaze. His faced paled and sweat droplets appeared on his forehead. He swallowed several times and averted his eyes from mine.

"I suppose I am, indirectly responsible for my parents' death. You remember I told you how they died?"

I nodded but said nothing.

"Yes, I thought you would remember," he said swallowing several times. "It is my fault my mother was unfaithful to Father."

"Holmes that is impossible!" I ejaculated.

"You will understand why. One night, I was roughly six years old, Father came home in a drunken rage. He threw open my bedroom door, the sound echoing through the silence of the house. Even from my bed I could smell the alcohol on him. I knew at that moment, things were not right. He was fearfully angry; the veins in his neck were standing out.

'He screamed at me, called me unlovable, blamed me for all his troubles. Then h…he approached my bed and tore my night shirt from me. He then…" I have never seen my friend struggle so much with inner emotion. Even though his face was averted from me, I could see pain and tears in his eyes. "He took away my innocence that night.

'He continued to do this every night, and there was nothing I could do. Mother knew, I told her, but she allowed him to continue his nightly acts, allowed him to continually hurt me. Sh…she never once was there for me. She attempted to find comfort for herself else where, and became romantically involved with another man.

'Of course, secrets cannot be kept, and people began to gossip. Whenever I went anywhere with Mycroft, people would turn away, mostly in disgust. I endured this until the night I have told you about previously.

'I am an unlovable person. If I was not, then why would Father hurt me, and Mother allow it? Why did people turn from me as though I had the plague? Why did…" The detective could no longer hold his composure and the first stirrings of a sob entered his voice. "So you see, Mackenzie is mistaken, her feelings for me are ill-founded. I cannot be loved by anyone, it has been proven. Now you know everything of my past Watson. If you feel you can no longer be in my presence than go, but please go now! Go, without another word if you must I…" all his composure disappeared and he began to sob. Every time he attempted to speak, his words were choked back by tears.

I was speechless, torn with grief. Never did I realize how horrible his childhood was. I could not comprehend a father doing that to a son. I could not believe the burden of pain and guilt, the terrible self-image that Holmes carried with him every day and night of his life. How he remained so strong is a mystery to me; other people would have allowed something like this to ruin their lives completely, but my friend managed to survive. He remained strong, his life seemingly unhampered by his horrible past.

After learning his secret, I knew so much more about him. The nightmares that he had were suddenly explained. I realized how he was able to survive. He built a mental wall between himself and the demons that haunt him. The wall was broken only at night, when his subconscious took over and those long forgotten memories made themselves known. The wall was also broken this morning, when Mackenzie brought love back into his mind, back into his life. Once that confession was made, the wall cracked and Holmes was once again tormented by horrible memories.

Not knowing what else to do, I stood and wrapped an arm around the trembling shoulders of my friend. The act, which I meant to be comforting, seemed to have the adverse effect on my friend. His shoulders tensed and he faced me, his tear-filled eyes flashed anger.

"I cannot bear your pity Watson!" He barked savagely. "You can hate me, turn from me, but do not pity me!"

"Holmes, I do not pity you," I said quietly. "I could never pity you. But I can be here for you. What your father did is the worst thing I have ever heard, I will not deny that. But you are not to blame Holmes, not for the death of your parents, nor for what he did to you. That is not your fault! You are not unlovable, do you understand that? If you need any proof, look at the young lady who stares at you with sparkling eyes and who blushes at your every compliment. The girl who would do anything for you Holmes and do you know why that is? It is because she loves you."

He shook his head. "It is not possible. Don't you understand? If I was capable of being loved, my Mother would not have permitted Father to--"

"Holmes, please. Your Mother was unsure of what to do. She was afraid to go against your Father for fear that you would suffer worse repercussions. She sought solace in another, because she did not understand how to cope. Do you honestly think she liked seeing you put through such pain? You were and still are her son Holmes; surely you must realize that she loved you."

He had no response for my statement and even seemed to relax a little. Finally, after several minutes, he looked up at me, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Do you honestly believe that?"

I nodded. "Of course."

"Watson," he said, clutching both of my shoulders. "Although your reasoning is sound, I cannot believe it. Do not protest!" He said when I tried to open my mouth. "As you are still my friend, at least until what I told you has had time to register in your mind, I would be much obliged to you if you would do something for me."

"Anything Holmes."

He smiled slightly and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Mackenzie is close to you; you seem to have a good rapport with her. Tell her, impress upon her that her feelings are erroneous. Do not tell her why, I cannot bear it if she turned away from me as well. But tell that she is mistaken, and tell her that I do not hold any ill feelings toward her. Explain to her that I am more than willing to return to our previous relationship, prior to her emotional error. Please do this for me Watson."

I knew I could refuse him nothing, and yet I saw the intense emotion in Mackenzie's eyes. I knew that she loved him; there was not a doubt in my mind as to her feelings for him. What was I to do? I must speak with her that much is clear. What I was to say, I had no idea.

"As you wish Holmes," I whispered, rubbing his back gently. "As you wish. Will you be all right?"

He nodded and turned from me. "Watson," his voice was so soft that I wasn't sure if I heard him. "When you do realize what I told you, when you comprehend the meaning of what I said, of what happened to me, if you do decide to leave me, I understand and will not hold that against you. You will always be the one man on whom I could rely and the best and wisest man I have ever been privileged to know. For that I will always be grateful."

"Holmes--"

"Go and tell Mackenzie, I believe you will find her somewhere in the graveyard. Once you relay my message, then make your decision about me. Good-bye Watson," the tone of his voice reflected the feeling of utter isolation he felt; the belief that I would relay his message and never return.

With one last look at his shaken form, I exited the room, my mind reeling.

**Mac**

I was getting colder, but still refused to return to the Setting Sun. I would rather get pneumonia than face Sherlock Holmes again.

I continued to walk until I came upon the sacristy. I stepped into the ancient building and shuddered involuntarily when I recalled the gruesome discovery Holmes and I found the night before.

I walked past the pile of skulls and up to the ancient alter. I dropped to my knees in front of it, and after making sure that no one was around, buried my head in my hands and allowed myself to cry, to let all the sadness and frustration I was feeling out.

It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and groaned when I saw Watson standing behind me, clad in warm clothing.

Without a word, he removed his coat and draped it around my shoulders. "You'll catch your death in this weather."

I shrugged. "I don't care, it doesn't matter."

"Mackenzie--"

"No, Doc, please. I'd rather die than face Holmes again. You don't understand, he probably hates me. When he heard me, he just stood there and then walked away, shaking. He was probably disgusted with me."

Watson sighed sympathetically and held me tightly, despite my protests. "No Mackenzie, it isn't you that he hates. Your confession of love is not what made him run-off."

Could he be serious? Is it possible for him to be right? "What do you mean?"

"I was just talking to Holmes," he said gently. "He asked me to give you a message."

My heart sank. "Obviously, he doesn't want to ever see me again. Otherwise he would have told me himself."

"No, that's not true. No, in fact, Holmes told me to tell you that he wants to see you again. He said that he will be more than willing to return to your old relationship, and act like you never said anything."

"You serious?"

Watson nodded. "Yes, why?"

"Because it is impossible! I mean if Holmes feels any anger toward me it will be impossible for us to return to our 'earlier relationship.' I mean come on Doc, can you honestly pretend that I never confessed my love for him, he never walked away from me and everything that happened was just some nightmare? Honestly Doc, you're not dense. Tell me if that is possible."

**Watson**

Her question startled me and I was chagrined to realize I had no answer for her. Of course she was correct; those words she spoke could never be retracted. And yet, I cannot allow her to walk out of our lives simply because Holmes cannot deal with his own past demons. (Yes I know that thought was unworthy of me).

"Mackenzie, please listen to me."

Her brown eyes were filled with such hopelessness that my heart went out to her. For the first time, I realized how young she was. Her ten and seven years did not give her enough experience to deal with problems such as Holmes's. It was obvious by her eyes that she felt she would never recover from Holmes's brash reaction to her words. "What Doc? Are you going to try and give me a speech that everything will be all right?"

I shook my head. "No Mackenzie, I am not going to give you false hopes. I do not know what Holmes will do, if he will do anything regarding your love for him. But I can tell you one thing."

"What's that Doc?"

"He cares about you, he cares about you deeply."

At my remark, Mackenzie threw her head back and laughed a mirthless laugh. There was no humor in that cackle, just pain. "That's rich Doc, that's grand! You know something? I've never heard anything better in my life. How can you stand there, stone faced and tell me that Sherlock Holmes cares about me, after you saw his reaction? Damn Doc, you're a good liar. What are you going to tell me next, Holmes is secretly pining over me?"

"No, I am not going to tell you that. If you will allow me a few words without interrupting, I think I will be able to show you where everyone lies."

"Sure Doc," she said, a faint gleam of hope appeared in her eyes but disappeared so quickly that I could not be sure that I didn't imagine it.

I took several deep breaths. This was going to be difficult.

**Mac**

"Mackenzie, you must understand something about Holmes. He does not hate you for what you said, but he feels you've made a mistake in your emotions."

I raised my eyebrows. What was this man talking about? "Come again Doc?"

"He thinks himself unlovable, was taught that in his youth. So he feels that you cannot love him, because it is not possible."

I was utterly confused. "What are you talking about? A person cannot be unlovable!"

He put his arm around me in a fatherly embrace and stroked my hair. "Do you remember what I told you, about Holmes's past?"

How could I forget? That anger toward the late Mr. Holmes has been clawing at me since Watson told me about him. "Yeah I remember."

"That is not the only reason he does not acknowledge the softer emotions."

Watson had succeeded in piquing my curiosity. "What's the other reason?"

**Watson**

I had a feeling she would ask that question. I did not have the slightest idea how to answer it. It would not be possible for a complete answer without betraying Holmes's confidence, indeed, I did not know how _that_ was viewed in the time Mackenzie was from, nor did I know what her reaction would be. But I did owe her an explanation.

I swallowed, for I had to choose my words very carefully. "Mackenzie, Holmes's father taught him that he was unlovable. Indeed, he impressed the fact on Holmes's mind so harshly that he continues to believe it today. His mother's reaction to the 'lesson' did not help Holmes in changing his perspective of himself. On the contrary, by his mother's feigned ignorance and lack of support, Holmes believed and still does, that it is impossible for someone to love him.

'I cannot say anything more, but I hope you understand that you are not to blame for Holmes's inability to react to your confession. You did NOT drive him away."

**Mac**

Although I did not completely understand what Watson was saying I had some inkling and that inkling made my blood run cold. Holmes was hiding some deep dark secret that was affecting him still. Could that secret be the root of his nightmares?

I swallowed and stared at Watson. It took me several moments before I could find the courage to speak. When I did, my voice was a harsh whisper of disbelief. "So Holmes…he doesn't hate me? He doesn't believe that I, that anyone can love him because of something his father did? He forgives me, for saying what I did?"

"Yes," Watson said with a small smile. "Yes. Now come along, let's go back to the Setting Sun before you catch your death of cold."

"All right," I said. I wanted to see Holmes again, to apologize to him. It was not going to be an easy apology. "Uh just give me one minute Doc," I said walking toward the alter. If nothing else, this time travel episode renewed my faith in God. I knelt to say a brief payer of thanks for allowing me to see Holmes again. I also prayed for peace for the detective so he would be released from the inner demons he carries around.

When I stood, something black and fluttering caught my eye. Curious to see what it was, I walked toward it.

"Mackenzie, what are you doing?"

"Shut up for a sec Doc!" I growled. I wanted; no I needed to see what this fluttering thing was. When I got closer, I realized it was a piece of black silk snared on the corner of the alter. I took the fabric in my hands and examined it closely. There was a slight discoloration on it, but the cause I could not determine. I decided to bring it back to Sherlock Holmes. Carefully folding the silk, I stuffed it in the band of my jeans . "Ready to go Doc."

He nodded and we began to walk back through the frozen snow. I was filled with trepidation, and a half understanding of Sherlock Holmes. How was he going to react when he saw me again?

"Did you suddenly get a chill?"

"Huh? Oh sorry Doc. No, I didn't," I replied.

"You're shivering. From what?"

"Fear."

"You have nothing to be afraid of," Watson said putting his arm around my shoulders. "There is no one you should be nervous about seeing," he said amending his previous statement.

I nodded and we continued to walk in silence. When we finally arrived at the Setting Sun, my nerves were all on edge. My stomach and intestines were tied into one giant knot, despite the fact that is anatomically impossible. My hands shook as Watson opened the door to the lobby. I squeezed my eyes shut as we crossed the threshold.


	40. Chapter 39

**First, thank you to all my reviewers so far. I really hope you are enjoying this story. Oh! And in case any one is wondering, Holmes' characterization in the last few chapters is vital to this story. So sorry if his painful past has offeneded anyone. I certainly did not mean for that to happen! Hope you enjoy this chapter and the following ones!

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Chapter Thirty Nine: Deductions and Reconciliation 

**Holmes**

What will Watson do? Will he ever want to see me again? More importantly, is what he said about Mother true? Is it possible that she did indeed love me, but was too afraid to show it? Impossible! And yet...

"Holmes?"

I held my breath, dared not to hope that it was my closest friend. He called my name once again and it was then I knew he did not leave me. I almost cried out, my nerves that were so tightly strung seemed to relax at once. At least I did not loose my closest friend.

"Watson, come in!" I was shocked to hear my own voice tremble.

The door slowly opened and in stepped my dear friend, who looked at me with a physician's eye. "Holmes," he said his voice hardening. At least he was not going to pity me. "Holmes, your eyes."

"What about them?" I asked, trying to seem like my usual self, before I was forced to relive my past.

"Don't act the part of the fool Holmes. I know full well what you did in my absence! Your syringe was not idle."

I felt a deep burning shame fill me, a shame I would never admit to anyone. Watson was right, I had used cocaine to try and ease my demons, to send them back to the prison from whence they came. Trying to seem indifferent, I shrugged my shoulders. "What of it?"

"If I've told you once…"

I raised my hand to stop him. "It is none of your business how I cope with things. Now more importantly," I said, swallowing hard. "Did you find Mackenzie and relay my message?"

"Yes he did Holmes," a timid voice came from the doorway. I looked up and saw a very pale faced and shaken Mackenzie.

**Mac**

I felt my limbs turn to water as I stared at the great detective. My heart was pounding, not from desire but from fear, so loudly in my ears that I am sure he heard it. Now that he stood in front of me, all the words I had planned to say flew out of my mind, leaving me totally speechless.

I turned to Watson, fear evident in my voice. "Would you mind if I have a few minutes alone with him?"

Watson squeezed my shoulder and left, leaving Holmes and I facing one another. I instantly felt deja-vu, Holmes and I standing under the street lamp back in Paris. As before I was the one to make the first move.

I cleared my throat and kept my eyes averted. "Holmes, I…I want to apologize. I didn't mean to startle or offend you. It's just that with your words last night and the knowledge that you talked to Becky, I thought you already knew how I felt.

'I didn't want you to find out that way, I didn't want you to find out at all. I knew how you felt about love, about women. That's why I didn't want you to know; for fear that I would turn you away. I couldn't bear the thought of loosing you and I tried to hide my feelings. But this morning, when Becky pissed me off, the words I'd meant to hold back just came out. I didn't even know you were there.

'I would love nothing more than to change what has happened, but I cannot. I wish I could change my feelings for you, so you could be comfortable, but that I cannot do either. I…I love you, I am in love with you Sherlock Holmes, and regardless of what you may think, I know I am not mistaken."

_Well that didn't come out of your mouth too badly. It could have been stated a helluva lot better but it could have been said worse. Okay Mac, now's the true time for courage, how is he going to take this?_

I closed my eyes and waited for either angry words, yelling or just plain denial. It seemed like an eternity before he made any type of sound or movement. Finally he sighed.

"You must be mistaken," was all he said, although his voice sounded as though there was no conviction behind his words.

"I wish I were," I said quietly. "I wish I were so you could be at ease, so you wouldn't feel any pain or agony. But I'm not Holmes, I know I'm not."

There was nothing but silence for the next several minutes. When I opened my eyes, I saw Holmes sitting on one of the beds, his eyes closed, his eyebrows knitted and a look of utter shock and confusion was written on his features. It was clear by his expression that he was contemplating something; most probably my words and that I should not interrupt his thoughts. I wanted to sooth his furrowed brow and hold him tightly in my arms, telling him how sorry I was to have caused him so much pain.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. When he spoke his words were soft. "You must understand that I do not know what to make of your words. They go against everything I was taught to believe."

I nodded but said nothing, for I did not know what to say.

"I was convinced that you were mistaken, but you seem adamant that you are not."

"Correct."

Another long silence. "Did Watson tell you that your feelings for me are impossible?"

I nodded. "Yes, he did."

"And what do you think?"

"You're crazy, completely off your rocker," I replied, my tone harsher than I intended. "It is impossible for someone to be unlovable."

He raised his eyebrows at my words but said nothing. I was all on edge, how was he going to react? What was he going to say, indeed, what was he going to do? _He could never want to see you again._ At that thought my knees went weak and I grasped the wall for support.

"Mackenzie, come here and sit down. I do not need you to faint."

I staggered over to the bed and sat down beside Sherlock Holmes, unsure of how he would react to my closeness. He looked at me for several minutes and the averted his eyes.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "You must realize that…" he swallowed and looked away from me. "You must understand the way I feel…what I was taught to believe. I do not wish to hurt you, indeed, I would rather die first, but I must somehow make my position clear."

My heart sank at his hesitating yet to the point words. "You cannot not reciprocate my feelings," I said sadly. I glanced at him and saw pain in his face. I forced a smile and attempted to make my voice light, but even that did not, could not hide the misery I was feeling. "I never expected you to; indeed I rather figured that you would be disgusted by my own feelings." I shrugged my shoulders. "What will be will be, and as the saying goes, 'tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.'"

He frowned and seemed uncertain as to my words. "You certainly have a way with words."

"It had to be said," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. I was forced to swallow and avert my eyes, because it dawned on me how close we were, in bed, the door closed…too many possibilities both wonderful and frightening.

He seemed to sense my discomfort for I felt his eyes on me. "What's the matter?"

_Sensory overload! Sexy guy six inches away from you on a bed! Sexy guy that you are in love with is only six inches from you on a bed! Sensory overload! Tell him that Mac, tell you're imagining y our bodies intertwining amongst rumpled sheets. How do you think he'll react?_

I shook my head and got to my feet, my pulse pounding too fast for comfort. "Nothing, I'm just a little…uneasy being so close to you on that bed." I shrugged my shoulders and waited to see whether my implied feelings would be obvious to Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't disappointed; he didn't pick up on my meaning and just frowned.

"Here," I said pulling the fabric out of the band of my jeans. I tossed it to him. "It'll get our minds off emotions for awhile."

He seemed to relax, when I brought his attention back to some tangible problem. He took the silk scrap in his hands and began to study it.

"Not discolored, covered with heavy layer of dust and cobwebs. Very best material, would sell for roughly fifty pounds on Bond Street," he then brought the fabric to his nose. "Distinct odor of mildew, as though kept in a damp, dark place. Whomever owns this is quite comfortable financially, and does not concern himself with the condition of his clothing.

'He is fastidious about his personal cleanliness and is very muscular."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "How the hell did you learn all that from a piece of silk? You must be kidding me."

He shook his head good-humoredly. "No, I am not 'kidding you,'" he said making the phrase sound ridiculous as only he could. "I thought you were observant."

"I am," I barked indignantly. _Damn he does have chameleon-like moods. More multifaceted than any character in fiction. _

I began to laugh at my thoughts. _Duh Mac! He IS a fictitious character! At least you were taught to believe that._

"What the devil are you chortling at?" He asked with some heat. Obviously he was not use to his deductions being interrupted.

I smiled, "I wasn't laughing at anything. Pray continue with explaining your deductions."

He muttered something but thankfully he deigned to explain his reasoning. He held the silk for my inspection in much the same way a magician holds a silk handkerchief before he makes it disappear. "You will notice that the silk is the color black throughout."

"No shit Sherlock," I muttered.

"I beg your pardon!" He said with indignation. _Good Mac, just use the guy's first name._

Once again I apologized. "It's a twenty-first century expression. Just keep going."

"Well, since the black is the same shade throughout, it was never exposed to sunlight, hence the reason I said it was kept in a dark area…"

"Hang on a sec!" I interrupted, unable to follow his train of thought. "How do you figure it wasn't exposed to sunlight?"

He gave an exasperated sigh. "The sun has the ability to make colored fabrics fade. Since there is no discoloration or fading, this bit of silk was never exposed to sunlight."

"Cool!" I smiled. "How about your other deductions?"

"That deduction was also verified by the fact that it is covered with cobwebs and a heavy layer of dust. Neither element is seen often in areas that are exposed to great amounts of sunlight."

"True, true."

"The dampness?"

"Simplicity in itself! Since it has a musty odor…"

"It must be stored in a damp place. Anyone who stores expensive silk in a dark, damp spot doesn't really care about their clothing. Since our antagonist doesn't give a damn about his clothes, he obviously has enough money to replace them, hence your reasoning that he was financially secure!"

"Precisely."

"I can't figure out how you learned he was fastidious about personal cleanliness and he was muscular," I admitted.

As an answer, Holmes tossed me the silk. "If you put to your nose, you can make out the faint smell of soap, since the scent is deeply embedded in the fabric, he must be extremely concerned with the cleanliness of his own person.

'The width and density of the silk speaks for the size of the wearer."

"Amazing, absolutely amazing!" I said, not bothering to hide my admiration. I figured since I couldn't have him romantically, I could at least have him as a mentor and a friend.

"Elementary," he replied. He then cocked his head quizzically to one side. "Where on earth did you find this?"

"Alter in the sacristy and since Raoul de Chagny was found there, I deduced it must belong to our antagonist."

"I pose another question to you," he said with a weary air. "Where have we been…no, you could not answer that. You were busy pursuing the Persian."

"Huh?"

"The cellars of the opera house are the only places that have a great deal of dust and mildew."

"You seriously don't believe that the Phantom lives down there, do you?"

The detective shrugged. "I have no data yet." He turned away from me and reached for his pipe, signaling the conversation was finished.

"When are we returning to Paris?" I asked, not wanting to leave his company so soon.

"Six o'clock this evening," the detective replied. "Watson booked passage."

"Then what are we going to do until then?"

He sighed and lay on his back, resting his head on his folded arm. His eyes were closed and jacket was open, reveling his open vest and shirt, which was unbuttoned at the collar. He was such an alluring figure on the bed! "I would like to examine the area where we found de Chagny and try to determine how our antagonist left."

"Sounds like a plan," I murmured. Temptation was steadily increasing and I knew if I did not leave the room soon, I would not be able to control my sexual impulses. "When are you leaving?"

"About an hour's time," the detective replied. "I will admit I am quite fatigued, the entire day has been nothing but severe emotional strain." He opened his eyes and looked at me, the corners of his mouth drooped. "It appears that you too have had a strenuous day. I suggest you get some rest."

"Where should I go?"

Holmes acknowledged the room we all shared. "Here is as good a place as any."

I glanced at the bed where Becky and I were supposed to sleep. It was covered with her stuff. "How comfortable is the floor?"

"Don't be ridiculous! There are two beds in this room."

_Is that an invitation? Did he just invite me to do what I think he did what I hope he did?_ "Yeah but Holmes, you're in one."

I held my breath as I watched his features register what I had just said. His eyes widened and his face paled slightly. He stared at me for several minutes and then moved to one side of the bed. I couldn't believe my eyes and slipped between the covers before he could protest.

**Holmes**

A momentary weakness, precipitated by the strenuous events of the morning…no! I will be honest with myself. I invited her to share my bed because I am frightened; frightened of being alone with my own horrible memories. Frightened of the siren call of the syringe and cocaine, for they make the memories more painful and horrifying; the memories of Father…

I am not use to feeling emotionally weak. Indeed, I have spent years building a wall to block my emotions out and now, all at once they are crashing down on me. Fear, the fear I haven't known since I was a child is now haunting me, plaguing me. Mackenzie for some strange reason is able to put my fears to rest, make it seem like they never existed. I am disquieted, being so emotionally dependant on another for peace of mind is completely against my nature and I cringe at my weakness. But I cannot help it…perhaps if I sleep, things will be clearer when I wake…

**Mac**

I very gently put my arm around his slender body and snuggled close to him, breathing in the smell of sandalwood aftershave lotion and the fait odor of tobacco. His body tensed under my embrace, but I ignored the signs of his discomfort. I will admit I was being extremely selfish, ignoring his comfort in order to fulfill my own desires.

Very slowly, his breathing evened out, which signaled he finally succumbed to sleep. Although far from old, when asleep, Holmes looked several years younger. All the lines of worry eased from his face, and a shock of black hair rested lazily on his forehead, giving him the appearance of an adolescent boy. Within a few moments of his nodding off, a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow and a slight whimper escaped from his throat, signaling the beginning of a nightmare.

"Shshh," I whispered pushing his hair off of his face. "Easy Holmes, you're quite safe." I continued to whisper gentle words of comfort into his ear until the lines of tension once again disappeared from his face. I continued to stroke his hair, allowing my fingers to caress each strand, freeing it from the lime oil that he used to keep it in place. "What fears haunt you Holmes? What terrors do you keep locked away in your mind? What happened to you, to make you feel unlovable?" I sighed and laid my head on his chest, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. "I wish there was something I could do to put you at ease. Just let me in Holmes, please?" My eyelids suddenly became heavy and I was forced to stifle a yawn. "Let me in…" It must've been then when I fell asleep.

**The Phantom**

This is certainly an interesting development. The detective and his young associate…feelings between them! I did not expect this, did not foresee this turn of events. This development can be very vital to my plans for ridding myself of that troublesome vicomte.

Hmmm, I'm getting careless. The troublesome girl has found a piece of my cloak. I must wear my new one when I return to Paris later this evening. I have much to do before tomorrow evening's performance of 'Faust.' Christine needs another lesson, the crescendo in Marguerite's Jewel Song, she sings weak. By tomorrow night, she will be ready to conquer Paris!

I think I will instruct the management to send Monsieur Holmes and his friends tickets to tomorrow night's performance. It will be very interesting to see the detective's reaction to the 'disaster' I have planed should my demands be ignored. Prepare Monsieur Holmes to meet the 'Angel of Death' face to face!


	41. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty: Surprise **

**Watson**

"Doctor Watson, what the hell is going on up there? I gotta pack for our train ride to Paris!" Becky complained for about the fifth time.

I shrugged my shoulders and attempted not to show my lack of patience for her behavior. "I cannot answer your question Mademoiselle," I said civilly. I hoped that Holmes and Mackenzie could come to some type of agreement that would benefit both of them.

"I hope Mac's at least getting some action! I mean she's making us wait long enough!"

"I beg your pardon," I said, not sure of what she meant by 'getting some action.'

"Oh you know Doc Watson, a little adventure in body chemistry," she said making an obscene gesture with her body.

I felt my face redden. She was acting extremely un-ladylike! "Mademoiselle, please!" I smiled uncomfortably at the people who were staring at the girl. I shrugged my shoulders and proceeded to chastise her in English.

"Yeah whatever," she said with an arrogant shake of her head. "Listen I'm gonna go up there and see what the hell is going on!" She began walking towards the stairs.

I grabbed her arm, an action which was disrespectful, but was the only thing I could do to stop her from interrupting the conversation between her friend and Holmes. "Mademoiselle, you will stay here. I will go upstairs and check on our friends."

"Not without me! With my luck you'll involve yourself in some orgy and I'll be here forever."

"Then come along," I murmured. Her brash actions certainly solidified my somewhat low opinion of the Americans. As we headed to the room, I secretly wished that they finished whatever conversation they were having.

With some chagrin, I noticed my hand trembled as I placed it on the door handle. For all I knew, Holmes could have taken yet another injection of cocaine and be listless and unresponsive. When I opened the door, I was completely taken aback by the scene that lay in front of me.

**Becky**

"Oh shit! Way to go Mac! I didn't think you had it in you!" Suddenly, Watson put his hand over my mouth to silence me. _What the hell is his problem? My best friend is sleeping with a guy! Yes! I've succeeded in getting her to become sexually active! Now all I have to do is get her to experiment with the sexes! But hell that will come later! Right now, I'm thrilled._

"Quiet!" Watson whispered harshly. He glared at me, but I didn't care. All I knew was my best friend was no longer a Puritan.

"What the fuck is your problem? Don't you see that my friend and your friend got it on up here?"

He dropped his hand from my mouth and looked at me totally puzzled. "What did they get on?"

_Jesus Christ! Remind me never to let Mac make any travel decisions. _"Uh Doc Watson, look at the bed. Tell me what you see."

"Holmes and Mackenzie," he replied simply.

_Fuck he is stupid. _"Hello! Is anybody home in there?" I asked tapping his forehead. "Mac and Mr. Misogynist are lying in bed together, sleeping! Don't you realize what they were doing?"

He shook his head.

"For a doctor you're friggin stupid! He's a guy she's a girl, both single. They were procreating up here! You know, trying to make a baby. Shagging each other! Doing it! Having sexual intercourse!"

At my honesty, the doctor's face went completely white and his knees began to shake. He swallowed several times and grabbed the wall with a pale hand.

"You okay? You look sick." Man what is his problem? He should be happy, his buddy got some action! I mean, hell I'm thrilled!

He nodded and sharply expelled his breath. "Th…that is not possible," he said his voice full of shock. "Holmes would never…"

I started laughing at him. "I just hope lover boy decided to use protection! I mean I don't know how a fetus will survive time travel!" That thought made me laugh even harder, the sound woke up the spent couple.

The detective slowly opened his eyes and looked down at Mackenzie, whose head rested comfortably on his chest. He frowned a little and then allowed himself to timidly stroke her blond hair in hesitating strokes.

Jesus! There's something wrong with everyone here! "Look Mr. Holmes, you just had her. Why are you so afraid to suddenly touch her?"

His head jerked up and his eyes grew wide with shock. "What the devil!"

**Mac**

I felt Holmes stroke my hair, but continued to pretend I was sleeping, because I did not want him to stop.

When I heard Becky's voice my eyelids snapped open and I saw her smirking and Watson very pale-faced, leaning against the wall for support.

"Mac how was your first time?" Becky asked, not bothering to hide her wicked smile. "Glad you took my advice and fucked someone before college! Although I don't know if a consulting detective would be my choice, but hey what ever turns you on!"

My face reddened at her misconception of the situation. I could not find my voice and swallowed several times. I looked up at Holmes, who was equally shocked.

"He was so good that you're speechless?"

"Becky!" I was horrified when my voice came out in a horse whisper. Quickly I clamored out of bed to show her that I was fully dressed and that absolutely **nothing** happened between me and Holmes. "Becky! My God, what the hell are you thinking?" My face grew redder as her eyes ran up and down my small frame.

"You're a quick dresser," she falsely observed. "Damn," she said when she saw Holmes get up. "Did you two get dressed right after it?"

I took a deep breath and looked at Watson, who was surprised to find both Holmes and myself fully clothed. "Doc I swear, it's not how it looks. You believe me, don't you?"

Watson blinked and looked at the detective who was standing a few feet behind me. When his gaze once again met mine, it was filled with both humiliation and a type of humor. When I saw his face, I exhaled slowly. _He believes me. He knows nothing happened. Thank God._

"Mademoiselle," Watson said turning to Becky. "I daresay your deductions are erroneous. I believe you owe both Holmes and Mackenzie, as well as myself, an apology. The things you have implied could both get them falsely arrested."

Becky raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Are you kidding me?"

I shook my head good-humoredly. "Never assume Beck, because when you do, you make an ass of you and me." I stretched and made a show of crossing the room to open the window. After Becky announced her misconception, the room seemed extremely close and stifling. I stuck my head out of the window, and felt the cold air on my face. "So, Holmes," I said staring out at the picturesque scene of freshly fallen snow. "You still wanna see where I found that piece of cloth?"

"Holmes it is nearly five o'clock," Watson said before the detective could answer. "We must pack and leave for the train station."

"It appears," Holmes said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "my Boswell is correct. You have aptly told me where you found the said material as well as the events that surrounded your discovery. I doubt there is anything I can learn from seeing the alter."

I shrugged and continued to stare into space. Things changed, changed drastically from when Becky and I first arrived in the Victorian era. I went from being a typical teenager, with all the social problems that go along with always having your head stuck in a book, to falling in love with an emotionally autistic consulting detective who could not, rather would not accept my feelings for him. And yet, there were times when I swore he felt a hint of my emotions, but those moments were so few and far between that I wasn't sure if they were real or in my mind.

"Yo Mac!"

I started and cracked the top of my head the window. "Sonofabitch!" I swore rubbing my bruised brain case. I looked at Becky with annoyance. "What do you want? Haven't you caused enough trouble all ready?"

She grinned and threw my carpetbag at me. "I packed for you last night. Come on, we're ready to go!"

"Thanks dude," I replied following her out of the room. We found the doctor and the detective chatting quietly by the fireplace.

"Hey boys, we're here," Becky said causing both men to look up.

"Come along then," Watson said gently. "There is a four wheeler waiting to take us to the station."


	42. Chapter 41

**Chapter Forty One: Returning to Paris **

We filed out of the door and clamored into the waiting four wheeler. Once the cab was bouncing along the cobbles, Holmes turned to me.

"Mackenzie, what were you so eager to tell me about last night?"

It took me a minute before I realized what he was talking about. "Oh yeah! I came up with this theory about whom the Phantom is and why he is infatuated with Christine Daaé."

The detective raised his eyebrows and signaled for me to continue. Taking a deep breath, I related to him my theory of the Phantom viewing himself as a fallen angel. When I concluded, Sherlock Holmes was silent for several minutes.

"What do you think?" I asked, hoping he would at least think it was logical.

"It's absolutely absurd."

My face fell at his dismissal of my well thought out theory. "What is absurd about it?"

"The entire thing is utterly ridiculous! There are no facts holding it together, just wild conjecture on your part."

"Yes but--"

"You also make references to Catholic teachings, when we have no evidence to suggest that either Mademoiselle Daaé or Monsieur de Chagny are practicing Catholics. The very little we do know of this Phantom fellow does not include his religious beliefs. Now I suggest you put that wild fancy out of your mind at once, and learn to give illogical theories the same amount of attention you would give a grain of salt."

_Well you certainly feel strongly about that don't you Monsieur?_ _I don't see you coming up with anything better. _

"Do not look at me reproachfully," Holmes said his grey eyes boring into my own. "You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you."

I sighed. "Well then buddy, what exactly theory are you working on?" I countered.

"I have multiple theories at the moment, each fits the facts known so far, however I will not divulge them until I have sufficient data to support one of them."

"Vous etes ici!" The cabbie shouted, altering us that we arrived at our destination. Quickly we boarded the train with only five minutes left to spare.

"You certainly make close calls don't you?" I asked once we were comfortably seated in our first class cabin and the train was slowly pulling out of the station.

"What the devil are you talking about?"

I looked at Watson who was getting much better at understanding twenty first century slang and expressions.

"I think she meant you pay no attention to your Bradshaw," Watson said uncertainly. He glanced at me and I nodded.

"Humph!" Holmes muttered irritably.

"What the hell is a Bradshaw?" Becky asked.

"Timetable," I answered. "Tells what time trains and boats leave and arrive as well as possible routes that they take."

"Oh," she said unenthusiastically.

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence. Holmes sat moodily in the corner, his knees drawn up, his head sunk upon his chest, eyes closed. He might have looked peaceful if it weren't for the constant grinding of his teeth, showing his aggravation over something.

I tried to draw Watson into conversation, but the frigid air settled in his war-wound causing his leg to ache horribly. His sentences were spoken in quick staccato, indicating the pain he was experiencing. Becky too would not tolerate any type of exchange, for she was still feeling embarrassed over her erroneous deduction of Holmes and me in bed.

I will not bore you with the details of the uneventful train ride, for anyone reading this would most likely loose all interest in my narrative.

When we finally arrived in our hotel in Paris, a telegram was waiting for Sherlock Holmes at the front desk. I accompanied him to the lobby to retrieve his note and waited impatiently as he read it. When he groaned, I realized the message was not favorable.

"Bad news Holmes?"

"We are invited to attend a performance of Faust this evening," the detective said with asperity.

"Well that's cool, aint it?"

"It depends what your definition of 'cool' is," Holmes replied, making my speech sound ridiculous as he threw it back at me. "Ordinarily I wouldn't mind attending an opera, especially a production of Faust, but I am not looking forward to spending intermission pacifying the angry management."

I chuckled and looked at him again. There was something he was not telling me. "What else does that telegram say?"

"The management has received a threat from the opera ghost, but refused to take my advice and accede to his wishes. If 'a disaster beyond their imagination occurs' than they deserve it!" He growled, angrily crumpling the paper. "They want my advice but refuse to take it! I daresay I am tempted to drop this entire investigation and return to Baker Street on the morrow!"

"Holmes you can't do that!" I said, suddenly realizing that he would not allow Becky and me to accompany them back to London.

"And pray, why not?"

"Because you never give up and if you drop this case then you'll be admitting to the management that the opera ghost is too clever for you to catch."

Anger from my comment radiated from him and I instinctively backed up. "There is NO investigation that is too difficult for me to solve! How dare you even suggest that!"

_Wow! Okay buddy, you're slightly arrogant. _

"I didn't mean I thought it was too difficult," I amended quickly. I didn't need him to go psycho on me. "It's just if you drop this case, that's how it will look."

He shook his head hotly. "Do you have something suitable to wear this evening?"

"You've seen the wardrobe Watson bought me," I said with a slight grin. I was happy he decided to listen to my reasoning. "What do you think?"

As an answer he removed his wallet and handed me several bills. "Buy something nice to wear."

"What about Becky?"

"She's fine. Just do as I say," he said dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Oh and Mackenzie?"

"Yeah?"

"Go shopping alone won't you?"

Puzzled I agreed. "All right," I replied, taking the money and hurrying from the lobby onto the Parisian streets.

I liked my new found freedom, to be able to walk around Paris by myself, allowing my thoughts to drift in and out without being hampered by communication. My thoughts however, continued to return to the strange treatment I received from Holmes. Why the hell did he give me money and insist I go shopping alone?

My mind turned over the conundrum until my head hurt. Men, I decided, are unfathomable, especially men like Sherlock Holmes.

I stopped in one of the many dress shops on one of the crowded Parisian streets.

"Bon matin," the woman said to me from behind the counter.

I returned her greeting and proceeded to look at the rows and rows of dresses she had in her shop. After about fifteen minutes of searching I gave up and was heading out the door when a crimson gown caught my eye.

It was long, with a low collar and was what one would call slightly provocative for that time period. There was cream lace at the wrists and a cream colored sash that went around the waist, accentuating the wearer's womanly curves. (Not that I have many 'womanly curves to accentuate!)

"Madame," I said indicating the dress. "May I try it on?"

The lady nodded and took me in the back where she helped me on with it. The dress fit me beautifully and I knew I had to have it, no matter the cost.

"It suits you," the woman said.

"I'll take it," I replied quickly, and then shyly I told her that I needed a corset. She helped me find one as well as a pair of matching shoes. When she rang up my purchases, I realized that Sherlock Holmes had given me the amount of money that I needed. It was almost as though he had found the dress and wanted me to buy it. _Mac, that's impossible! He would not be looking at women's clothing!_

I sighed and knew I was right. I paid the woman and exited the shop feeling extremely happy. I stopped at a small café on the Rue de Scribe, and bought myself a small cup of tea and a croissant with some pocket money I had saved from a few days ago.

Sitting outside, staring at the people on the Rue de Scribe, with nothing but my snack and new dress for company, I felt quite comfortable. I wasn't plagued by confused feelings and emotions, I didn't have to put up with constant ribbing, and I could just sit and allow my mind to drift away forcing on everything and nothing. Brief flashes of memory appeared before my mind's eye, but they disappeared so quickly that I could barely register what they were. For the first time in days I felt completely comfortable in my strange surroundings.

I can't recall how long I sat there, just enjoying my own company, but all too soon, the waiter appeared and asked me if that was all. I started nodded. As he cleared away my dishes, I asked him the time and he told me it was a little after four o'clock in the afternoon.

I didn't realize how long I had been out! I gathered my things and started walking back to our hotel, where I arrived roughly fifteen minutes later. When I entered the sitting room of the adjoining suites, I found Holmes half dressed, pacing wildly.

"Hey," I said closing the door behind me.

My entrance startled him and he jumped slightly although he regained control of himself before I could register that he lost it. "Bonjour," he said cordially. He eyed me once and then said in an offhand matter, "it appears that you were successful in finding something to wear this evening."

I nodded. "Yeah, sorry I don't have any change for you, but--"

"I assumed as much when I gave you the francs," he replied. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and sighed. "You should--"

"Yeah I know I'll go get ready, because I know you are in a hurry to leave," I said with a small smile.

He appeared startled. "Yes but how did you…"

I chuckled at his nineteenth century ignorance. "You're a guy; guys are always in a rush, especially when women have to get ready. Trust me Holmes, I've heard the 'let's get a move on' speech from my dad more times than I want to remember. So you're no different. Now I'm gonna give you the same answer I give him. I'll be ready in about forty minutes," without looking back, I walked into the bedroom I shared with Becky and closed the door behind me.

"Where the hell were you?" Becky asked when I threw my parcels on my bed.

"Shopping," I replied with a weary air.

"Well you could of invited me," she said indignantly.

"What are you up to?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.

"For the past ten minutes I've been trying to figure out what the fuck I do with this," she said holding up a corset.

I chuckled and shook my head good humouredly. "You wear it under your dress of course. You done in the bathroom?"

She mumbled something unintelligible and nodded. I entered the bathroom and after taking a hot bath, attempted to fix my hair so it looked somewhat decent.

"I'd kill for hair gel and a blow dryer right about now," I said to my friend as I endeavored to spike my short hair.

"Tell me about it. These people live in the damned stone age!"

I laughed and ran my fingers through my blond locks. "This'll have to do," I said looking at myself in the mirror. Granted I've seen my hair look better, but I've also seen it look. The next thing I had to do was to get myself into the corset, which proved more difficult than I originally thought. After about five minutes of struggling, I was obliged to call Watson for help. After all, he was married and should therefore have some experience with the infernal fashion of the nineteenth century.

Red-faced with embarrassment, Watson successfully managed to help me into my corset and the crimson gown that I purchased earlier.

"You look stunning," Watson said when I was finally dressed.

I smiled at his compliment. "You don't look too shabby yourself Doc," I said, admiring his tuxedo.

The doctor smiled and left the room, only to be called back by Becky, who was having more difficulty with the corset than I. Not wanting to hear any of my friend's off-colored remarks, I walked into the sitting room, only to find Sherlock Holmes standing fully dressed, in a black tuxedo which fit him beautifully, in front of the blazing fireplace. He held something that resembled a box in his hand, but from my view point I couldn't see what it was.

_Keep yourself together Mac. I know you fall for guys in tuxes but please, try and keep your hormones at bay, just for one night!_

"You look pensive," I said, trying to focus on anything but his handsome figure.

He turned and gasped in surprise when he saw me standing before him. To this day I am not sure if he gasped because I surprised him, or if he gasped because of the way I looked. He offered me a slight, Brettish half smile. "You look very ladylike."

Realizing that was as much of a compliment as I was going to receive from the man, I smiled gratefully. "Merci Monsieur Holmes," I said with a little bow. "You look totally awesome."

He nodded to me. "You look plain."

My heart sank at his off-handed observance of what I was painfully trying to hide. Although the dress looked nice on me, and the ivory gloves made my hands look elegant, I was wearing no jewelry whatsoever; wearing nothing that would make me look stunning.

"I guess I'm destined to be outshined by all the women in Paris tonight," I said with a sigh.

The detective crossed the room and in three long strides was standing before me. I looked into his face and saw suppressed excitement as well as an impish glow in his eyes. He pressed the small box he was holding into one of my gloved hands. "That last deduction was erroneous."

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. _What sort of game is he playing?_"What's this?"

"Open it!" He said with boyish enthusiasm. "I know it's not much but…"

Curiosity got the better of me and I untied the hastily tied ribbon and opened the small box. I gasped in surprise when I saw the contents.


	43. Chapter 42

**Chapter Forty Two: Madness: The Phantom's Plot**

Christine will sing tonight, no matter what those arrogant and self-serving managers say! She will sing, she will play Marguerite! I will try to send another note to those incompetent fools who control MY opera! If they refuse, there will be a disaster that will ruin their reputation, as well as end many lives. They will know then, that the Phantom's warnings should not be ignored!

Murder…how delicious, how alluring that thought is! I feel the familiar tingle of excitement rush through my blood, setting me on fire! I can see their bodies writhing and twitching in agony, blood soaking the opera floor, turning it from golden to deep red. Some will be crushed beneath the massive weight of…But Christine!

She will be angry with me, if she learns what I have done. That wretched girl does not understand that whatever I do, I do it for her. Our souls are intertwined by the beauty of music, my heart is hers to mold and love; and yet! And yet she has turned from me, has fled from me, has run to that sniveling viscount! I warned her! I warned her never to touch my mask, but she did! Christine why? Why?

Tonight, when she sings, she will be singing for me. After tonight, she will never turn from me again, for she will know the power I hold. She will know the power of the Phantom of the Opera! She will know!


	44. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty Three: The Opera**

"Do you like it?"

I stared at the gold chain with a beautiful cameo that was sitting in the box. Never did I see anything more beautiful in my life. "I-I love it! Holmes, I don't know what to say!"

He smiled and took the necklace and cameo out of the box. "Do you know who this is?" He asked, referring to the woman sculpted on the cameo.

I shook my head.

"It's Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom," he said, his fingers caressing the small picture of the goddess. He turned the cameo over and I gasped when I saw there was an inscription.

He read it aloud, and tears instantly welled in my eyes. I was forced to blink several times to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks. "M.S.: May Athena always guide your mind and heart, always helping you solve problems logically. S.H." When he finished reading, he opened the clasp and deftly put the chain around my neck. Once it was secured, he stepped back and admired it. "It suits you I think," he said with an affirmative nod of his head.

I hugged him tightly. "Thanks so much Holmes! I love it!"

He patted the top of my head and disengaged himself from my grasp. "I'm glad." He removed his pocket watch and consulted the time. "What the deuce is taking them so long? It is nearly six o'clock! If we do not leave soon, we will miss curtain."

I tried extremely hard not to laugh at his impatience. He went from being almost kind to ridiculously cold in a span of thirty seconds. He certainly was an interesting character.

"Watson! What the devil are you doing?"

"Sorry Holmes," Watson said, exiting our bedroom at the sound of his friend's voice. "Mademoiselle had a problem with her corset, but it's fine now."

If it had not been Watson speaking, I would have interpreted his statement a different way.

"Holmes did you see Mackenzie yet? Did you give her your gift?" Watson asked, oblivious to my presence.

"Yeah Doc, he did," I said placing a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know how to thank him."

Watson looked at the pendant and smiled. "Holmes this is absolutely splendid."

"Thank you old boy, now Mackenzie, if your friend is ready--"

"Yeah yeah I'm here!" Becky said entering the sitting room, pulling on her gloves. "I hate Victorian Era clothing with a passion!"

Her comment was ignored and Watson smiled at Becky and me in turn. "I daresay, my Mary will be quite jealous when she learns that I attended the opera in the company of two beautiful young ladies."

Holmes laughed at his friend's comment. "Watson, you are a helpless romantic! Let us go before we miss curtain."

I chuckled and Holmes opened the door, allowing us all to exit. We boarded a four wheeler which took us to the Paris Opera house.

"I've never attended an opera before," I said when our cab pulled to the curb of the Opera House.

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Do they not have opera in the twenty-first century?"

"No, they do, I've just never seen one."

Holmes snorted in contempt. "If you've never attended an opera, you've never experienced culture."

"You will enjoy yourself," Watson said helping me down from the cab. "Come along dear."

I stayed close to the doctor as we threaded our way through the throng of theatre goers, who were there to see and be seen, rather than watch the action on the stage. Holmes bristled angrily when he realized the motives of several of the attendees.

"Opera should be attended for love of music, not for demonstrating social class to the world," he murmured hotly.

When we entered the grand foyer, it was ablaze with bright light glinting off the vast amount of diamonds adorned by Victorian ladies.

"Hello! Monsieur Holmes, Hello!" A voice said attracting out attention.

We turned around to see Monsieur Firmin Richard and his associated Armand Moncharmin threading their way toward us.

"Bonjour Messieurs," the detective said cordially.

"We are glad to see you accepted our invitation to attend this evenings' performance of Faust," Moncharmin said with a timid smile.

"It should be an enjoyable evening," Holmes said.

"Oui, La Carlotta is in top form this evening!" Richard said his voice dripping with pride.

"Oh, I am severely disappointed," I admitted honestly, "I had heard so much praise about Mademoiselle Daaé, I had hoped she might be playing Marguerite."

Richard glowered at my words and was about to say something when Monsieur Moncharmin interject smoothly. "You will enjoy La Carlotta's singing. She has not disappointed thus far."

Our conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell that indicated there was fifteen minutes before curtain.

"Monsieur Holmes, allow me to personally show you to your seats," Moncharmin said with an amiable smile.

"Certainly Monsieur. Come along Watson," Holmes said tugging his friend's sleeve.

We followed the manager up a side staircase and down a long corridor that contained several boxes. We stopped outside a box that was dead center on the grand tier.

"Box Five," Moncharmin said pulling apart the curtains, allowing us to enter. "Are you certain you want to watch from this box?"

Holmes nodded before any of us could protest. "Yes Monsieur, this will be fine."

"In that case, enjoy Faust and hopefully I will see you during intermission." With that the manager left, leaving the four of us in the so-called haunted box.

"Holmes, you seriously think it's safe to be in the ghost's box?" I asked, sitting on one of the chairs.

"I'm not certain of how wise the decision is," Watson said sitting next to me, "but Holmes feels this is the only way to learn something more about our antagonist."

"That is correct old boy," Holmes said sitting on my other side. He removed his opera glasses from the recesses of his tuxedo jacket and used them to scan the audience. "The de Chagnys are opposite us," he observed. "The young viscount appears anxious."

"Yeah whatever," Becky interjected, sitting behind me. "I don't friggin care about the viscount; all I wanna know is when the hell this show is gonna start."

"In a few minutes Mademoiselle," Watson said to my impatient friend. "It will be worth the wait, I assure you."

Becky grumbled something unintelligible, but I paid her no mind, for at that moment the great chandelier dimmed and the first strains of the orchestra drifted up to our box, signaling the opera was about to begin.

The first act passed rather quickly and without incident, as did the second. At the conclusion of the second act, during Intermission, Watson roused my sleeping friend and suggested we go to the lobby for a drink. Needing to stretch my legs, after sitting for two hours in the cramped box, I quickly got up and walked down the stairs leading to the Grand Foyer.

I nearly lost my friends in the throng, but Watson's strong hand grasped by shoulder, steering me toward an opening in the crowd.

"I need a cigarette," Holmes said, removing his silver cigarette case. As he attempted to push past us, Monsieur Richard called to him from across the room. With a mild oath, the detective put the case away and turned to face the approaching management.

"Bon soir nos amis," Richard said, clutching a half-empty champagne glass in one of his hands. "How are you enjoying the performance?"

"We're enjoying it immensely," Holmes said with a slight smile.

"I say Monsieur Holmes; this is hardly a house with a curse upon it!" Richard said, glowing with drunken amusement.

"I hope it continues to stay that way Monsieur Richard," the detective said tightly.

"Has anything unusual occurred in Box Five?" Moncharmin asked.

I shook my head. "Non Monsieur, nothing unusual."

"So all is as it should be?"

"Oui, now if you will excuse me," Holmes said cordially.

"Certainly, we must go also. Au revoir!" The managers hurried away, talking merrily between them.

"I will meet you at our box," Holmes said attempting once again to get outside and have a smoke before the next act.

"Oh Monsieur Holmes!" The voice of Monsieur Raoul de Chagny stopped the detective in his tracks.

"Mon Dieu!" Holmes swore softly. He plastered a smile on his face to greet the viscount. "Hello Monsieur le Vicomte, le Comte."

"Hello," the count replied icily.

"Monsieur Holmes, are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oui."

"Monsieur le vicomte, you must be quite upset that Mademoiselle Daaé does not have a bigger role," I said, attempting to make some light conversation.

"It is nothing to grieve over," the count answered. "Perhaps if she stays off the stage, my brother will loose all interest in the chorus whore."

"Philippe!" Raoul said indignantly. He then turned to me and smiled apologetically. "Pardon-moi Mademoiselle Sterling. My brother has yet to understand my love for Christine. Yes, I am not pleased with the management's decision to cast La Carlotta as Marguerite."

"However Monsieur," Holmes said with weary charm, "Mademoiselle Daaé is extremely talented, even though she has a small role, her talent shines brightly."

_Wow! That's deep for him! _"I have to agree with my friend, Monsieur le Vicomte," I said.

The bell rang, signaling the third and final act was about to begin. We bid the de Chagnys farewell and made our way back to Box Five, Holmes swearing, angry that he was not able to put nicotine into his system.

The great chandelier dimmed, the orchestra began to play and act three of Faust began. Everything went smoothly until Carlotta began to sing the famous 'Jewel Song.' As soon as she sang the first few bars, a loud booming voice filled the entire opera house, attracting everyone's attention, including the actors and actresses on stage.

"I clearly instructed Box Five to remain empty!" The voice boomed.

I clutched Holmes's hand, in fear. "It's the Angel of Music."

"The Phantom of the Opera," he gently corrected.

At the sound of the voice, Christine paled; her body began to tremble with what I assume to be fear. "Angel? Angel is that you?" Her voice was filled with uncertainty.

"Silence you little toad!" Carlotta shrieked angrily.

"La Carlotta you have the roles reversed! It is you that is the toad, not Mademoiselle Daaé!" The Phantom said with a menacing laugh.

During this strange exchange, I glanced at Holmes; his grey eyes were transfixed on the stage, and burned with the intensity of fear, his face was deathly pale.

Carlotta attempted to ignore the Phantom's comment and continued to sing. "Ce n'est plus ton visage; c'est la fille d'un roi, c'est la fille d'un r-CROAK!" Suddenly a loud frog like sound issued from her throat. The croak was followed by maniacal laughter from le fantomé.

Carlotta attempted to continue to sing, but every time she opened her mouth nothing but croaking sounds would exit. She was forced to leave the stage in tears.

The only one who found the situation amusing was the Phantom. "Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!" He laughed manically, his laughter chilling me to the very marrow of my bones.

All eyes rose to the chandelier, which was beginning to sway.

Suddenly, Holmes leapt to his feet, his voice, managing to override the few shouts of terror and general pandemonium. "Clear the floor! Everyone clear the floor!"

Suddenly, as though Holmes's words were the cue the chandelier was waiting for, it broke loose from its chain and began a wild free fall, stopping only when its massive weight crashed into the middle of the stalls. There was a great crescendo of shouts of pain and fear.

"Mon Dieu!" Holmes said, his voice reflecting his own surprise. "I tried to warn them! I tried--"

"Holmes old boy, I must go see if I can be of any assistance!" Watson said getting to his feet.

"By all means man, go!"

My eyes strayed from the chandelier long enough to catch a glimpse of the Persian slipping out amongst the chaos. I slipped out of Box Five and gave pursuit to the Persian. We ran down several corridors until we stopped in a dark, deserted backstage area.

"Erik!" He shouted urgently. "Erik where are you!"

Taking advantage of the darkness as well as my secrecy I leapt at the Persian, managing to take him by surprise. I pinned him against a wall. "Who is Erik? What part did you play in this? Speak or die!"

"I am Erik," a musical voice said from behind me. I let go of the Persian and spun around, only to find myself face to face with those floating amber orbs from the Parisian alleyway. Something in his tone made my skin crawl and my blood run cold. "Did you like my trick with the chandelier Innocent?"

Before I could find my voice to answer him, he turned and began striding away from me at an inhumanly fast clip.

I ran to keep up with him and followed him up several metal stairs. He looked back only once and stared at me. My heart pounded even harder in my chest but I refused to allow his stare to stop my pursuit. He stopped at the edge of a catwalk and faced me once again. "Au revoir Innocent!" With that he grasped an overhanging rope and swung off the catwalk. I rushed to edge only to see him land on one several feet below.

Curiosity aroused, I also grasped a rope and leapt off the catwalk. I saw my destination, and mentally counted down until I had to release my hold on the rope. _Four, three, two, one!_

As soon as I let go of the rope, I realized I had miscalculated the jump by several inches. I began to fall. Frantically I pin wheeled my arms in attempt to grasp anything that would stop my wild plunge. My fingers scraped the metal of a nearby catwalk, but I could not grasp it. My hands reached helplessly into the air hoping that some miracle would intervene and save my life.

The ground was quickly rushing to meet me and I knew I was going to die. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the swiftly approaching ground or my body break into pieces. "Dear God…" Suddenly, something closed around my arm and yanked me painfully upwards.

I heard the ripping of cartilage in my shoulder as my body was jerked upward. I started to fall again, but I stopped, suspended in mid-air. It took me several seconds to realize what had happened. Someone had seen me and managed to somehow get a rope around my arm. I grasped it with my good hand, and looked up to see my savior.

My mouth became a cotton field when I saw my savoir was none other than Erik, the Phantom of the Opera. He was clad in black, and all I could see were his amber eyes, boring a hole into my soul.

"Hello Innocent," he said, swinging the rope, allowing me to swing like a pendulum twenty five feet above the ground.

"Puh-puh-please puh-hull me up!"

Erik laughed viciously and allowed a fraction of rope to slip between his fingers before grasping it again. Despite my predicament, his actions reminded me of a cat, playing with a mouse before its death. "I don't see why I should help you Innocent. Did I not warn you never to interfere with my plans?"

I was too frightened to answer.

"Didn't I Innocent? Answer me you wretched girl!"

"Yuh-yes," I squeaked.

"Yes I thought I warned you. And yet, you still proceed to meddle in my affairs. I was not amused when you rescued the sniveling viscount from his fate." He looked down at me, his eyes filled with a sadistic gleam. "You know that falling from this height will be an extremely grisly death, don't you?" He asked swinging the rope faster. "Your body will be little more than a mass of bloody flesh. No one will be able to recognize you."

Tears of fear fell from my eyes when I realized this man wanted nothing more than to kill me. "Please, sh-show some compassion! Duh-don't let me die!"

He threw his head back and laughed. "Show you compassion? Why should I? The world has shown no compassion to me! You and that detective have been nothing but an annoyance, and now one of the hinder some bugs must be eliminated." He said no more for several minutes, allowing the rope to swing back and forth. Those silent minutes seemed like an eternity and were by far the most frightening of my entire life.

_What is he going to do? He can't kill me! He's got to save me; I'm too young to die!_

"Innocent, you are extremely lucky that I do not like to commit gruesome murders. The grislier, the faster and therefore the least gratifying. I like to watch my victims suffer."

"Wuh--what are you going to do?"

"Me?" He asked with mock innocence. "I am going to tie this end of the rope to this railing. Then I am going to leave and tend to more pressing matters. You, on the other hand, will hang here until you arm completely dislocates itself from its socket, causing you to loose your grip and fall to your death. In the very unlikely chance you survive, stay clear of me, for next time you will not be ask lucky."

Then, as quickly as he came, he vanished, leaving me alone in the darkness.

Always lacking upper body strength, I knew I would not be able to pull myself up. Not knowing what else to do, I screamed as loud as I could, hoping to attract someone's attention.

My shriek of terror echoed loudly. I waited several seconds, but there was no sound of running feet. My hands and arms were growing tired from supporting one hundred and thirty pounds. My grip on the rope was quickly loosening.

**Watson**

I rushed down the stairs that led from Box Five as quickly as possible. My medical instincts were all aroused and I all I could think of were those poor people trapped under the chandelier.

When I reached the orchestra level, the damage done was worse than I had anticipated. Stalls were completely crushed and several people were lying on the ground, some were unnaturally still and quite, others in their last throes of agony before Death would descend on them. The sight that lay before me seemed surreal and I was instantly reminded of my years serving in Her Majesty's Army as an army doctor and the carnage I saw while in Afghanistan. Pushing those macabre memories from my mind, I began tending to the injured.

I was engrossed in trying to stop a man's severe bleeding when a feeling of foreboding fell across me. I will never know what made me glance up from my work and look at Box Five, but when I did I was filled with unexplainable apprehension. I saw a tall, brutish looking man gesturing wildly to someone else. When he moved, I saw my friend, Sherlock Holmes, saw his face blanch and his legs grow weak, forcing him to grasp the railing for support. All time seemed to stop when I saw him so visibly shaken.

I finished working on the wounded man and shouted Holmes's name at the top of my voice. If he heard my shout, he gave no sign. He continued to stare at the man next to him, his face contorted in horror. He seemed unable to move, as though despite his unbendable will, he could not force his legs to accede to his wishes.

I took to my heels and within mere moments, I was standing in the curtained doorway of Box Five, watching the exchange between Sherlock Holmes and the man known as the Persian.

"There is still time," the Persian said, his words heavily accented. "You must come with me."

For the first time in our long association, Sherlock Holmes admitted uncertainty. "How do I know you are not lying? How do I know she is not already…?" His words trailed off and he shuddered.

"You must trust me sahib," the Persian said. He grabbed my friend's sleeve and pushed past me. "Hurry sahib or we will be too late!"

Instantly, Holmes's leg responded and he pushed past me and followed the Persian out of Box Five and down several flights of stairs. Paying my old wound no heed, I sprinted after my friend, trying to learn what the deuce was going on.

"Holmes," I panted when his pace slowed slightly. "What the devil is the matter?"

He stared into my face; his usually deep and penetrating grey eyes were filled with panic, reminiscent of a rabbit's eyes before a fox ends its life. "If anything happens to her Watson, I will never forgive myself. If she dies I too will die…"

Before I could question his cryptic statement, he darted off down another corridor. He stopped short and I crashed in to him.

"Holmes what the devil…" Suddenly words were no longer possible. My throat constricted with fear and Fear's cold fingers chased each other up and down my spine causing me to shudder uncontrollably, when I saw what made my friend stop so abruptly. Hanging by a rope, several feet overhead was Mackenzie.

"Good Lord!" I gasped when I saw her attempting to pull herself up. "Holmes we must do something."

"Please help me!" Mackenzie cried her voice nearly inaudible.

Her voice seemed to break the spell that held Holmes and me in place. He quickly mounted the stairs, I at his heels. My heart hammered wildly in my chest, my legs felt a though they were lead. It seemed like hours before we reached the platform from where Mackenzie was hanging.

Holmes quickly looked at the knot, which was already beginning to fray, and ruefully shook his head. "We'll never be able to pull her up using this rope."

"What are we to do?"

As an answer, Holmes lay flat on his stomach, the upper half of his body hanging over the platform. "Watson," he said over his shoulder, "make sure that rope does not break." He returned his attention to the terrified girl. "Mackenzie, I am going to pull you up. Can you hold on a little longer?"

She nodded and bravely gripped the rope tighter.

Holmes extended his arms toward her. "Mackenzie, give me your hand."

I could not be sure if she obeyed my friend's comment for I was intently watching the rope, making sure it did not snap. Eventually, Holmes managed to coax her into letting go of the rope completely.

Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, Holmes slid forward and muttered several oaths. "Watson! Watson help me, she's slipping!"

**Mac**

A shriek of fear escaped my lips when I felt Holmes's firm grip on my hand loosen. I heard him curse and saw more of his body hanging precariously over the edge of the catwalk. Sweat began to pour off his face and he closed his eyes in effort to summon up all his strength to keep both him and me from falling.

"Mackenzie, listen to me," he said between clenched teeth. "I cannot hold on much longer. You must give me your other hand."

I attempted to move my arm, but found it too painful. Fear, pain and exhaustion clouded my thoughts, and I could not for the life of me concentrate on what the detective was saying.

"Mackenzie, Mackenzie listen to me!"

"Holmes, please, I can't. It hurts too much," I was chagrined to hear how weak my own voice sounded.

Holmes's grip loosened even more. "Damnit!" He opened his eyes and stared at me, his own were filled with pain and fear. "Mackenzie, you said you loved me, did you not?"

His question took me by surprise. "Yeah I did."

He took a deep breath and attempted to get a better grip on my hand. "I have heard that if you love someone you also trust them completely. Mackenzie, do you trust me?"

_What is he doing?_ "Of course I trust you Holmes."

"Then show me you trust me! Show me your trust by ignoring the pain in your arm and giving me your other hand. Let me know you are not afraid of me!"

His words had the desired effect. I couldn't disobey him. Clenching my jaw, I swung my arm painfully upwards and cried out when Holmes caught it in his strong hands.

"I've got you," he said, panting heavily. "I've got you. Watson! Watson help me old boy!"

"All right Holmes, just pull her up! I'll make sure you don't fall."

Together, and with a great deal of effort, the two men managed to pull me onto the catwalk. When I found myself on solid ground, I collapsed and began trembling.

**Watson**

"It's all right Mackenzie, you're safe now," I said putting my arm around the terrified girl. I drew her close to me and hugged her tightly, speaking softly and soothingly to her. I had to keep her as calm as possible so she would not go into shock. "Ssh, everything is all right, you're safe now."

I glanced up at my friend and saw him nervously shift his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes were cast downward, peering through the metal grates in the structure intently, as though the answers to his unspoken questions were to be found several feet below us.

"Mackenzie," he said his voice extremely soft. Although I could not see his face, I knew he was attempting to decipher some type of internal conundrum. "Is it possible for you to tell me what happened?"

"Holmes!" His request was outrageous! I could not, would not allow him to interrogate this young woman after such a traumatic experience. "Holmes I will not permit any interrogations! She is certainly not capable--"

"Thanks Doc, but I'm all right," Mackenzie said, pushing away from me with trembling hands. Her face was deathly white and despite her attempt to sound brave, her voice shook. "I…I just want to get down."

"In a moment," I said softly. She was much too shaken to move. I took her in my arms once again, and she rested her head against my shoulder. Knowing, full well the element of surprise, I allowed my hands to caress her back until I reached her wounded shoulder. Before she had a moment to think, I grasped it tightly in my hands, and moved the joint back into place.

She cried out in pain and my closest friend winced. "Are you quite finished Watson?" He asked, averting his eyes once again.

I nodded and released Mackenzie, who was looking at me with deep anger.

"What the hell did you do that for?" She asked, rubbing her wounded shoulder. "Don't you have any idea how much that hurt?"

"I do apologize," I said, speaking softly, "but it had to be done. Had I have left your shoulder as it was, you could have lost all ability to move it."

When my words registered in her mind, her face paled considerably. "Thanks Doc," she said, avoiding my eyes.

I forced a smile that I'm sure looked grim on my own countenance and looked at Holmes who was trembling slightly. "I daresay, I think it would be best if we leave this dreary corridor." I stood and helped Mackenzie to her feet.

"Let us leave the opera house for tonight," Holmes said. There was something in my friend's face that made my heart pound against my chest in fear. His expressive grey eyes were suddenly devoid of any light. The steel colored irises reflected a hopelessness that I have never seen him express before, a hopelessness of a man who very nearly lost his entire world and had no chance to regain it.

When I realized I was staring, I quickly averted my eyes from my friend's gaze and offered Mackenzie my arm. "Do you think you can walk down the stairs?"

She nodded and allowed me to help her stand. After steadying herself for several seconds, she allowed her trembling legs to begin the walk down the catwalk stairs.

"Holmes," I said, touching his sleeve. His face worried me.

"Yes old man?" He asked abstractedly.

"What is the matter? You look--"

"Nothing Watson," he said impatiently.  
I knew from his tone, that his problem, what ever it may be was not for discussion. I shrugged my shoulders and paid attention to helping Mackenzie down the stairs safely.


	45. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty Four: Aftermath**

"Oh my God!" Becky shouted, rushing toward me and hugging me tightly. "Dear God, you scared the hell outa me!" She hugged me tighter, and her embrace told me that everything was once again cool between us. "You coulda been killed, do you know that? Damnit! Don't you ever do that to me again! Please? I don't know what I woulda done if something woulda happened to you!"

Not one for extreme shows of affection in public, especially that between members of the same sex, I very gently disengaged myself from her arms. "I'm all right," I murmured softly. I tried to ignore the tenseness in my body and my fluttering heart. I forced a smile to put the fears of my best friend at ease. "Really, I'm okay."

I felt a gentle hand on my wounded shoulder and looked up to find Watson rubbing it very gently. He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Come along," he said, his tone still that of a physician. "I sent Holmes ahead to hail a cab."

The mention of the detective's name set my heart pounding. _'Mackenzie, you said you loved me, did you not? Then show me you trust me! Show me your trust by ignoring the pain in your arm and giving me your other hand. Let me know you are not afraid of me!' _His words continued to echo in my ears. Could he have professed his love for me?

_Somehow kiddo, I don't think that plausible. I think he was just slick. He played with your own emotions to save your life. You shouldn't be pissed, you should be grateful! _

_Yeah, but it is possible for him to love me. I mean he did save my life. He also let me sleep with him on the bed…_

"Come along Mackenzie," Watson said, resting his hand on my shoulder and very gently pushing me forward.

"Watson," I said my voice soft. The strain I was just under was beginning to fall heavily on me. "All those people, were you able to save any of them?"

The doctor replied sadly. "I hope so." He forced another smile and gently pushed me forward. "Come along."


	46. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty Five: A Game of Questions and Answers**

We left the opera house, after assuring the management that we would return on the morrow. The cool night air caressed my face and kissed my lips. Nothing felt more welcomed than the kiss of Mother Nature after such a harrowing experience.

Watson helped me into the waiting hansom. In the confined area, I was able to observe the great detective. He was attempting to make himself as small and as inconspicuous as possible, a very strange change from the slightly arrogant and overbearing man. However I was much too tired to try and figure out why Holmes was acting so strangely.

The ride back to the hotel was silent, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. Mine were a muddled mess, mixed with both fear and fatigue. So lost in thought was I that I did not realize the cab had stopped. Watson, ever the gentleman, sat with me inside the cab for several minutes, allowing me to come out of my reverie on my own.

"Come along Mackenzie," he said when I shook my head, clearing the myriad of thoughts that were assaulting my mind.

I looked up at him, slightly stunned. "Where's Holmes and Becky?"

"They went to the room," the doctor said gently. "Come along," he said grasping my arm before I could question how long he sat there with me.

I entered the hotel room with Watson's protective arm around my shoulders. He steered my into the bedroom I shared with Becky and helped me to undress and get into my pajamas. His reason for helping me was simple: he didn't want me to do further damage to my arm.

Becky made no snide comments about Watson undressing me. Her eyes were still wide with fear and her face was deathly white.

"Hey Beck, it's all right," I said, gently touching her arm when Watson finally left the room. "I'm all right."

She turned and faced me and I was surprised to see the light of unshed tears in her eyes. "You scared me; you scared me half to death. I thought…I thought I was going to loose you. What was worse than you hanging there was the look on Mr. Holmes's face. When your hand almost slipped from his, I've never seen anyone more frightened in my entire life. In one second so many emotions crossed his face…" she suddenly stopped talking and threw her arms around me, her well-built frame shuddering with soft sobs. "I don't know what I would have done if you had died."

I forged a half-smile. "I'm not dead, as you can see. I told you that you can't get rid of me easily."

She buried her head in my shoulder, which under normal circumstances would have been funny for she is a good four inches tall then I.

"Mac, promise me something," she said when her sobs subsisted.

"I'll promise you anything," I said, patting the top of her head gently.

She raised her head and pushed away from me, signaling that she wanted to look me in the eye as we spoke. "Mac I want you to promise me that you will not die on me and..." she paused for several moments as though contemplating the best way to phrase something.

My nerves which were strung to the breaking point, as well as my naturally impatient nature could not tolerate my friend's continued stalling. "If you want to say something Becky, then for Christ's sake say it!"

"Well," she averted her eyes from my face and studied the floor at her feet. "I know what you're feeling for this detective."

"Becky, what are you driving at?"

"Well if we ever do find a way to get home, promise me that you will return with me. Promise me that these feelings for Sherlock Holmes aren't strong enough to keep you here in this fucking backwoods century."

My stomach lurched and I suddenly felt sick. I had never considered the strength of my feelings for Holmes. When she posed her question, I found my throat extremely dry. I could not answer her, for I feared something inside me would keep me from leaving Holmes, no matter what the circumstances. For the first time in my entire life, I was frightened of myself. Needing to flee from her question, as well as satisfy my need to be safe, I hurried out of the bedroom and into the sitting room where Holmes and Watson were in deep conversation.

When I entered the room, both looked up and Watson smiled at me. "Mackenzie, how is your shoulder?"

"It's all right, thanks," I said with a slight smile. I attempted to forget Becky's request and asked the doctor if I could join them for a few minutes. Watson nodded, realizing my unspoken fear of being alone. Watson patted the sofa next to him and I sat down, feeling more secure with his arm going protectively around my shoulders.

Holmes smiled quickly; his eyes looked as though his thoughts were far away. "Mackenzie, do you think you can tell me what happened?"

"Holmes…" Watson said, his voice taking on a warning tone.

"No, Doc, it's all right. I want to tell you, I want to tell both of you."

Holmes slouched down in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Pray be precise as to the details."

I took a deep breath to marshal my thoughts and then attempted to recount exactly how I ended up hanging twenty five feet above the ground. When I concluded, both of them were silent.

"Is that everything?" Holmes asked at length.

"Yessir," I said, my voice shaking slightly. Suddenly my zeal for tracing down this Opera Ghost partly dissipated.

"You are extremely lucky you survived," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "You could have been killed."

"I know; if it weren't for the two of you, I would have been dead."

"Let's not think about that," Watson said, putting on a cheerful expression.

"No, Watson, we must discuss this," Holmes said with an expression which meant he was not to be deterred. "Mackenzie, why do you think this Erik spared your life?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm not a psychiatrist; I can't get into people's heads!"

"Think!" Holmes barked.

"He said he didn't want to commit messy murders and that he had business to attend to. He also said with me dead you wouldn't give a damn what happened to Christine."

"A correct assumption, isn't that right Holmes?" Watson asked, attempting to make me feel better.

Holmes shrugged his slender shoulders and ignored his friend's question. "Hmmm. Can you think of anything else?"

"No," was my terse reply.

"Well then, if that is everything, you can return to your room--"

"Not so fast Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have a few questions of my own that need to be answered."

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh as he did so. "What questions?"

"Well, first of all, I wanna know how you two got to me so quickly. I mean I know I screamed and everything, but I somehow doubt you heard me in the auditorium, especially with the bedlam in there."

"Let's just say we were informed."

"By who?"

"A man who was intent on killing you a few days previous," was the tired reply.

"'A man who was intent on killing' me? Who the hell…" Suddenly I stopped my musing when I thought of the encounter I had with the man known as the Persian, several days ago. "You can't mean the Persian."

"I can, and I do," Holmes replied quickly.

"But that is impossible Holmes. He wanted me dead, I'd bet my life on that," I said trying to rationalize what Holmes had just told me. "Are you sure you've got the right guy?"

"Yes."

"All right, second question, how did that croaking sound issue from Carlotta's throat?"

"Have you ever heard of ventriloquism?"

I nodded. "That's how?"

"Yes, anything else?"

"One more Holmes," I said. I took a deep breath, preparing for the outrage that was to follow my question.

"I'm waiting."

"Did you even care that I was in danger?" I opened my eyes and saw his, wide with surprise.

He swallowed a few times before answering. "What are you asking me Mackenzie?"

"I'm asking you if you cared that I was in danger. I'm asking you if you felt anything when the Persian informed you of my predicament."

It was obvious by the detective's silence that he did not know how to answer my question. If he answered in the affirmative, he would be revealing feelings that he himself did not want to acknowledge. If he answered in the negative, he chanced loosing me completely.

"I was a little nervous when I heard of your position, as anyone would be. However, once I saw you, I realized you were not in nearly as much danger as the Persian had said."

Watson glared at his friend's attempt to hide his emotions. "Holmes, you cannot continue this charade…"

Not wanting to see either one of them in any more discomfort, I faked a yawn and stretched my sore shoulder. "You know guys, I'm exhausted. I want to thank you for saving my life, but I really do not have the means to thank you adequately. However," I said, holding up a restraining hand to cease Watson's attempted protest. "I am exhausted and I will thank you by leaving you two gentlemen alone. Good night Doc, good night Holmes."

They bid me good night and I felt their eyes on me as I retired to my bedroom.


	47. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty Six: Revelations in the Darkness**

**Watson**

Once Holmes and I were alone, I turned on him fiercely. "What the devil do you think you are doing Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He was genuinely surprised by my question.

"Tell me, right this instant, what your feelings are for Mackenzie. When you learned of the danger she was in, you made a statement that tugged at my heart strings. You said that if she died, you too would die. But when she directly asked you about how you felt, you shrugged off your feelings. What are your intentions Holmes?"

My friend stood quickly, and began to anxiously pace the small sitting room. He did not want to acknowledge any type of emotion. "I don't know Watson! I cannot answer your question."

"You cannot answer it or you will not answer it?" I asked.

He turned and faced me; his eyes were as hard as coffin nails. "Watson, I do not understand why you are inquiring as to my emotions."

His statement caught me off guard. I did not expect any type of response. "Holmes, I know how Mackenzie feels about you. She confides in me, and she has told me, on numerous occasions, that she does not know and I will quote her, 'where you are coming from.' It is only fair for you to explain your feelings to her--"

"Watson, my feelings for Mackenzie, what ever they may be, are no concern of yours! You are my friend Doctor; indeed I have allowed myself to confide in you, I have allowed you to know things about my horrible past that I have kept from everyone else. But I will not explain to you my feelings for this girl!" I had never known him to speak so fiercely.

I raised a hand in defense, a gesture I had unconsciously picked up from Mackenzie. "Holmes, I did not mean to offend--"

"Undoubtedly, but your judgment is, as ever, extremely faulty," he snarled. He stalked over to one of the overstuffed armchairs and sat down, drawing his feet up to his chin.

I had successfully put him in a foul mood. I had brought up an issue that his brain was not yet ready to sort out. "Holmes," I said placing a hand on his sinewy shoulder.

He shrugged my hand off. "Watson, I am not in the mood for one of your maudlin apologies. You have brought some things to my attention that need to be mulled over. I would appreciate some time alone."

Knowing I could get no more out of him, I bid my friend good night and retired to my own room, hoping for some well deserved sleep.

**Mac**

When I entered my room, I was glad to find Becky fast asleep. I watched jealously as the blankets rose and fell in time with her deep and peaceful breathing. Her mind was not plagued with doubts; her sleep was not hampered by confused emotions. With a frustrated sigh, I climbed into bed, knowing that sleep would not come easily.

As I lay in the dark room, several thoughts swarmed my head. Becky's words kept reverberating in my mind. 'W…well if we ever do find a way to get home, promise me that you will return with me. Promise me that these feelings for Sherlock Holmes aren't strong enough to keep you here in this fucking backwoods century.'

Would it be possible after all that had happened between us, for me to leave Sherlock Holmes? Could I, in my heart of hearts deny my love and return to a life without him? I highly doubted that prospect.

Then what was I to do? I resigned myself to the fact that I would never return home. At first, that thought terrified me, but now, after all that has happened, I found staying in the Victorian Era with Holmes quite appealing.

_Mac come on, you don't need all those modern conveniences! I mean who needs a laptop when you have Sherlock Holmes? Your family will defiantly understand your decision! And so will Shawn! They will all be so happy when they learn that you would rather stay with a dope fiend than see them again. Get over it Mac! Girl, you've gotten to get a grip on yourself. When you are finally able to go home, you WILL go home because I, the logical side of your brain, will kick your ass until you start listening!_

I shook my head angrily in attempt to shut out the little voice of reason and doubt. Why does my heart beat for him and only him? Why, when I had prepared myself to leave this place, I fell for Holmes? I know I will never return home because I don't want to leave him. I liked my memories nice and prim but I'll have to leave remembering only him.

My mind suddenly focused on Holmes's face, how peaceful it looked when he slept. Why had God put Holmes in my life? Why him? Why me? Why this time? I sighed and rested my head against the pillow, wondering when the hell I was going to be able to sort things out. In addition to my daunting thoughts, my mind continued to replay the events of the evening; I felt like I was in a cinematic nightmare. Gold eyes suspended behind a black mask, a maniacal laugh, freefalling, Holmes's face…

I bit my pillow and screamed silently into the fabric, a habit I had for the longest time. Pent up frustration and anger left my body, leaving me feeling listless and drained. Eventually, I must have fallen into some kind of sleep because I was awakened sometime later by a horrible nightmare where I was being suspended over a deep pit, with golden eyes all around. I free fell, and awoke before I hit the ground, maniacal laughter still ringing in my ears.

I sat up, drenched in sweat and shaking, a scream caught in the back of my throat. I wrapped my arms around my body and rocked back and forth in attempt to calm my nerves. "Get a grip girl, it was just a dream!" _Easier said than done, huh kid?_

I swallowed hard, forcing the scream back down into my throat. When I was able to stop shaking, I stood and stared into the mirror, watching the tears dry on my face. Finally, calming down somewhat, I hurried into the sitting room in attempt to leave the maniacal laughter and the dream far behind.

I entered the darkened room, which smelled of recently snuffed out tobacco. Sherlock Holmes, I deduced, must have just recently gone to bed. I wished I could join him and he would hold me close to him, protecting me from all the bad things in the world. Knowing that could never be, I sighed and contented myself with lying on the sofa, attempting to get comfortable. I closed my eyes and imagined the cushions I was lying against was Holmes, and I managed to fall into a somewhat peaceful sleep.

"Well well, this is certainly a surprise," a voice said, bringing me out of my slumber.

"What the hell? It's too friggin early!" I groaned keeping my eyes clamped shut.

"What exactly are you doing?"

I groaned again and rubbed sleep from my eyes. I blinked several times; my brain still fogged and looked around for the owner of the voice. When I realized it was Holmes, I forced a smile. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I might ask you the same thing," he said charging his pipe with the left over plugs and dottles from the previous evening.

I raised my eyebrows and then realized he wanted to know why I was on the sofa. "I woke up in the middle of the night and wanted a change of sleeping venue." I stretched. My body was stiff from sleeping on the hard couch and my shoulder was still slightly sore from Watson's ministrations.

He studied my face until I turned my head, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. "Nightmare?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied, not even curious as to how he deduced it. "What are we up to this morning?"

As usual, Holmes was stubborn. "Near death experiences aren't easily forgotten. Watson can verify that these memories often manifest themselves in your mind. It is best, therefore, to discuss these situations and then your mind will be somewhat relieved of its burden."

"Thanks for the lecture Professor Holmes," I said sarcastically, "but I said I was fine. Now, just shut up about my nightmare and we'll be cool. Now what are you plans for today?"

"I am returning to the Opera House," he said quietly.

"Sounds fun. I'm coming with you."

"Were you invited?"

"Well I sure as hell aint gonna let you have all the fun!"

"Are you certain that you will be able to return to the opera house?"

"Yes Holmes, I'm one hundred percent positive," I growled hotly. _Jesus Christ, I wanted him to be concerned for me, but this is a little ridiculous!_

He said nothing but smoked in silence for several moments. When he finally turned to me once again, he flashed me a brief Jeremy Brett half smile. "Well then, I suggest we do not waste any more time. You must dress, for I am anxious to reach the opera house. I have a few theories that I need to test."

"What about Watson and Becky?"

"Watson expressed his desire to sleep late this morning and I have no doubt that your friend has the same wish. Now, you can either dress and accompany me, or you can remain here. The choice, Miss, is entirely yours."

"I'll be ready in five," I said getting to my feet. I tiptoed into the bedroom, found a dress and threw it on. After quickly brushing my teeth and leaving a brief note for Becky, I returned to the sitting room to find Holmes pacing.

"Quick enough for ya Monsieur Holmes?"

"I do hope you realize that there is no time for breakfast," he said over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I realized that Holmes," I lied. _Figures! You decide to accompany him and he won't even feed you. Remind me again Mac why you love him?_

"Oh shut up!"

Holmes turned around. "I beg your pardon?"

I felt my face catch fire. I did not realize I had spoken those words aloud. "I wasn't talking to you!" I barked.

He raised one cynical eyebrow. "Then to whom were you speaking?"

"Myself!" _Good Mac, now you sound like a schizo! _"Holmes, don't worry about it."

He shrugged his slender shoulders and took held the door open so I could pass. We walked through the hotel in silence. Once we were outside, Holmes suggested a walk to the Opera House.

"Whatever," I replied.

He took my arm in his and we walked to Garnier's Palace of Music. When we arrived outside the opera house, I was surprised to see several men in plain dress, idling around, watching the building. I broke our mutual silence and asked Holmes about the crowd.

The detective made no reply and studied the men for a few moments. All of a sudden, a smile broke out on his face and he shook his head good humouredly. Without a word, Holmes and I entered the opera house and walked to the office of the managers.

"Mackenzie," Holmes said in a low voice when we were standing outside the office door. "I am sure Monsieur Richard is in a foul mood. Pray do not say anything that will antagonize him."

"Now Holmes," I said with mock innocence, "what ever gave you the idea that I would say something slightly off color?"

He ignored me and rapped on the door. The sallow faced Monsieur Rémy answered my friend's knock.

"Monsieur, how can I help you?" He asked, his voice as nasally as ever.

"I am Sherlock Holmes and I must speak with either Monsieur Moncharmin or Monsieur Richard. It is extremely urgent."

"Mr. Holmes you are expected. You may enter," Rémy said, fixing me with an icy glance.

I ignored him and followed Holmes through a short corridor ad reached yet another door. This one led to the inner sanctum of the managers' office.

Holmes rapped on the door and in an instant, it was opened by a pale faced Moncharmin.

"Thank heavens you've come Monsieur Holmes! Something horrible has occurred!"

Holmes smiled grimly. "It seems, my dear Monsieur Manager, that whenever we meet something terrible has occurred. I would appreciate it if you would kindly omit your preamble and get to the point."

Moncharmin colored slight and ushered us into the sparsely furnished office. Once inside, Holmes and I sat across from the mahogany desk where Richard was seated; his fingers angrily tapping Morse Code on the wooden surface.

"Monsieur Holmes, this is insufferable! We engaged your serves as a consulting detective so an end can be put to this business of the ghost. You have been here, in Paris at the Opera's expense, a little over one month and you have not given us one solid bit of information! Now Monsieur Holmes, are you conducting an investigation or are you simply enjoying Paris at our expense?"

Outwardly, Holmes gave no sign of being agitated by Richard's verbal assault. However, I, after spending much time in the detective's company, recognized the stiffness in his posture and the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw and grinding of his teeth. Both of these betrayed his outward attitude of sangfroid and showed that Richard's comments struck a chord.

"Monsieur Richard," Holmes said tightly, "I have been doing my best to unravel your mystery. However this man that you are intent on my finding is a most formidable opponent and--"

"Enough excuses Monsieur Holmes!" Richard bellowed. He slammed his fist against the desk with such force that the ink bottle jumped. "I want results and I want them now. If you feel you do not have the mental capacity to solve my problem then say so."

At that accusation, I nearly leapt to my feet and strangled the manager. "How dare you say that about Holmes! For your information--"

"Easy Mackenzie," the detective said, placing a restraining hand on my shoulder. He looked Richard in the eye and spoke deliberately. "Monsieur Richard, you have done me a great many injustices. Another man would simply leave you and your problem, allowing you to solve it on your own. Indeed, I would if lives were not in danger. I am going to continue to assist you.

'You spoke of me having to tangible evidence. You are incorrect in your assumption. In my hand, I hold many threads each of which will lead me to a conclusion. Shall I, perhaps explain to you where we all stand?"

"Do so," Richard snarled.

"Your opera ghost is not a ghost at all. He is a man of roughly six feet five inched and weighs approximately fourteen stone. He lives in darkness and rarely ventures out in the daylight. The few times he does leave his home, he has a strong purpose. He is moderately rich and wears a heavy black cloak of the finest material.

'He has a deformity on his face, the severity of which I am not certain. To hide this deformity, he wears a mask of black porcelain. He is a musician and composer, and was instrumental in building this opera house. He is extremely strong and has killed in the past and will kill again.

'However, his killings are not random acts of violence. No, there is a strong motive behind them. For example, he murdered Joseph Buquet not out of malice but out of self defense. His privacy was invaded and he felt he was in danger.

'He has a very strong attachment of Mademoiselle Daaé. This attachment is strong enough from him to deceive her as well as attempt to take the life of the young Raoul de Chagny, a very successful suitor of Mademoiselle Daaé. He seems to have a strong hold over her and I am almost certain she is with him now.

'Monsieur Moncharmin, am I correct in assuming that the urgent and tragic occurrence you informed me of is the fact that Mademoiselle Daaé is missing?"

Both managers stared at my friend as though he was not a detective but some type of god that was standing in front of them. I must admit that some of Holmes's deductions took me by surprise. How the hell did he know Erik worked on building the Opera House? I was certain he would tell me all in good time.

Holmes was forced to repeat his question and only then was Moncharmin able to nod his head.

I looked at the two managers and decided to ask the question that was on both their minds. "All right Holmes, how did you know?"

"Simplicity in itself. What deductions are you unsure of?"

I smiled, realizing that he was allowing me a chance to show off. "Well I know you judged the Opera Ghost's height and weight by his stride."

I glanced at Holmes and he nodded, his eyes glinting with humor. "Well, you also deduced his love for darkness by that cloth you found," I decided to give him the credit, in front of the management at least, for uncovering that bit of material. "The deformity, would be one of the only reasons someone would wear a mask. But I'm not sure how you knew he worked to build the opera house or how you know he has Christine."

Holmes favored me with an ironic Jeremy Brett half smile. "I suppose, my dear apprentice, I should enlighten you. I deduced that our Phantom built the opera house, because of his intimate knowledge of every nook and cranny of Garnier's building. Who else, save someone who worked side by side with the building's creator, could know the building so intimately?"

"True, true," I said, feeling my heart race. I loved his boyish desire to impress others with his remarkable skill.

"Mackenzie, you will remember that when we entered the opera house, you commented on the group of men standing around attempting to act inconspicuous. They were constables, easily recognized, and their presence alerted me that something was amiss. When we entered the building, I noticed that Mademoiselle Daaé's name did not appear on the sign for tonight's performance. That coupled by Moncharmin's exaggerated claim that something was amiss, led me to conclude that Mademoiselle Daaé is missing."

I grinned at Holmes. "Nice!"

"Amazing!" Moncharmin announced.

"Elementary," was the detective's reply. Try as he might, he could not hide the joy the compliments gave him. "Now Messurs, can one of you please tell me when Mademoiselle Daaé was last seen?"

It was Richard who answered. "We noticed she was gone after the incident with the chandelier."

"A very grim occurance, especially since it could have been avoided. But," Holmes's eyes grew bright when he realized his barb was not lost on the two managers, "my question remains unanswered. When and where was Mademoiselle Daaé last seen?"

Moncharmin, who had been standing quietly, answered the question. "You Meg Giry saw her last."

"Meg Giry? Any relation to Madame Giry, the box keeper?" I asked.

"Yes," Richard said sourly. "It is her daughter."

"Where can I find this Meg Giry?" Holmes demanded.

Richard paged through several sheets of paper that were scattered on his desk. He muttered something unintelligible as he searched for the information Holmes requested. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he produced a small, yellowing paper. "Here is her home address Monsieur Holmes. However, if you would like to return around seven thirty this evening, you will be able to find her in her dressing room preparing for tonight's opera."

Holmes snatched the paper and studied it for a moment. "Hmm, 44 Rue de Scribe, interesting."

"What is?" I inquired.

He ignored me and put the paper in his waistcoat pocket. "Very good, this matter should be cleared up in a couple of weeks. Now gentlemen, I only require a dark lantern and then we shall be on our way."

Moncharmin disappeared and a few moments later returned with a dark lantern in his hand. "Why do you need this?" He asked, his voice full of curiosity.

"My associate and I are going into the cellars," he raised a hand to stop Richard's protest. "Fear not Monsieur Richard, my quest is no expense to you. I will find your diva and return her to you, unscathed."

"What the hell? Are you crazy?" I asked when we were well away from the managers' office.

"Come along," he said, not bothering to slow his pace.

"I would, greatly appreciate it if you will tell me what you hope to accomplish by venturing down into the cellars."

"It is not your concern at the moment," was his curt reply.

_Of course!_ "Hey Holmes, why bother telling me? Don't worry about being polite. It's quite all right."

The detective ignored my sarcasm and continued to walk.

"Hey Holmes," I refused to be ignored. "I was thinking--"

"That prospect is surprising," he said caustically.

"Go to hell," I barked back. I was hungry and irritable.

"I daresay Mackenzie, we are several thousands of feet about that particular destination."

"All right wise ass, enough of your sarcasm. I'm curious and I would be much obliged it you would deign to answer my question. How in the name of all that is holy, did you know so much about Buquet's death?

'Did you really deduce those things or did you just give the management a load of bullshit to get them off your back? You can tell me, I swear I won't squeal."

"The deductions I made were fairly simple," he said as he opened a much battered door, which lead to the cellars of the opera house. If he had no idea what bullshit was, he wasn't going to say it. "When I first heard of Buquet's death, I realized at once it was not suicide."

I opened my mouth to question him but he anticipated it and answered my question before I voiced it. "Why would Buquet hang himself in the third cellar of the opera house when quicker and easier means to end his life were at his disposable? The fact that the rope disappeared also suggested murder rather than suicide.

'Following this train of thought, I hypothesized that whoever murdered Buquet did the deed not out of malice but out of fear. This was confirmed when I viewed his body the afternoon of your arrival…"

"Hold up one second buddy! How the hell do you know whoever killed the scene shifter did it out of fear?"

We were descending into the first cellar and into subsequent darkness.

"I know it by lack of violence inflicted on Buquet's body. There were no markings on him, save for where the missing rope bit into his flesh."

"So what you're saying is, hanging someone by the neck until they die is not violent?" I couldn't hide the skeptism in my voice.

"Mackenzie, if you hated someone enough to kill them, how would you do it? Tell me the first thing that enters your mind," he said answering my question with one of his own.

The first thing that entered my mind was '_Do the lambs still scream at night Clarice?'_ I then shuddered at the mental comparison between Holmes and Hannibal Lecter. I decided to answer the detective's question.

"Well, if the person I was going to kill caused me or a loved one pain, I'd want them to experience the agony I felt. I'd use a knife, which is considered a personal and intimate weapon, and pull a Hannibal Lecter and make them peal off their own face and feed it to dogs.

'Then if they were still alive, I'd slit their wrists and watch them bleed."

"You see," Holmes said, stopping at a staircase to light the dark lantern, "you have just demonstrated that if Buquet's murderer killed him out of malice there would have been much more mutilation. Buquet would have suffered longer--"

"Quid pro quo Holmes," I said interrupting him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Quid pro quo. How would you do it?"

The detective did not answer for several minutes. We descended the staircase, our footsteps echoing loudly in the deserted corridor. When he finally answered my question, his voice was soft and barely audible over our footfalls.

"Do you honestly want to know?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I mean you heard how I would kill someone." Sherlock Holmes intrigued me far more than a healthy level of intrigue for a heart's desire. He was hiding something from me, something that was keeping us apart and I wanted to know what it was. When I look back, I am thoroughly ashamed of my actions. I used every psychological trick I knew (which wasn't many) to strip away his mask of emotional indifference.

We once again lapsed into silence as we descended another staircase; the dim light from the lantern did little to pierce the thickening shadows.

"The first thing I would do," his soft words were punctuated by our footfalls against the stone floor, the only sound in the corridor. "I would tie the person to a chair, making sure the bonds were tight enough to bite into his flesh. I would talk to him in measured tones, reminding him of what he did to me.

'I would make him remember every emotion he felt when he ravaged me. I would make him relive those emotions, all the while I would tell him how I felt as those acts were done to me. Then, I would explain exactly what I would do to him, noting with satisfaction the look of extreme fear in his foggy grey eyes." The sinister tone of Holmes's voice chilled me to the marrow as much as the surrounding darkness, which matched our conversation.

"I would then blindfold him and allow him to feel the cold steel of my knife against his hot skin. I would then, very meticulously, remove his--" Holmes stopped speaking, the fevered pitch of his voice revealed that he was overcome by emotion. I did not doubt for one second that he was visualizing the murder in his mind.

We were both silent as we descended the third staircase. A fleeting memory passed through my mind of how I almost died in that very cellar, but it was gone before I could fell any emotional residue from the incident. The darkness grew thicker by the second, our footsteps louder.

"Quid pro quo," Holmes's voice sounded so unnatural in the ethereal silence and startled me so much that I nearly cried out.

"What?"

"Quid pro quo. Who were you thinking about when you were describing murder?"

I was slightly embarrassed to tell him who was in my thoughts at that moment. But, I decided if I was going to get into his psyche, I'd have to reveal information about myself. I took a deep breath. "I was thinking about your father," I said plainly.

Holmes stopped short on the stairs and stood perfectly still, barely breathing as the echo of my words spiraled upward and disappeared. When he turned to face me, I could, despite the wavering light, see the pallid color his face became.

"What did you say?" He asked his voice extremely hoarse.

"I was thinking about killing your father," I said choosing my words carefully and speaking deliberately.

Holmes took a deep breath; certain he had not misunderstood me. "Why?"

"Because I love you Sherlock Holmes. Because I know he did something horrible to you, something so bad that you fear love and distrust everyone. Dear Lord Holmes, it is because of him that you don't believe it's possible for me to love you! He hurt you and by hurting you he hurt me!"

I was terrified that I revealed so much. I hadn't meant to say all I did and was scared of how he would react to my words.

"I see," was his unsteady reply.

"Quid pro quo. Who were you thinking about killing?"

Silence once again. We reached the fourth cellar without saying a word to each other. I wasn't surprised. I knew that what I said rattled the great detective. I was certain that he was trying to rationalize my words and put them in a perspective he was comfortable with.

"I was thinking about the same person," I said at length.

"Your father?"

I could barely see him nod his head in the affirmative. "Yes."

Mentally I debated with myself whether or not to ask the reason. Would I be prying? Absolutely. Did I care? Not really. Did I want to know why he refused to acknowledge love? Absolutely. Did I believe what Watson told me? Yes, but not completely. I couldn't believe that he feared love and women because of the death of his parents. There had to be a deeper reason. But what was it?

Eventually I made up my mind. "Why Holmes?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why were you thinking about killing him?"

He did not answer immediately. He seemed to be pondering about whether or not to answer my question.

The echo of our footsteps sounded loudly in the cold cellar. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of water lapping against the shore. We seemed to be walking toward the water.

"Father ruined my boyhood, and most probably destroyed my adult life. It is because of him that you terrify me and…" here he took a deep trembling breath. "And I am not certain how I feel toward you. The only woman who I ever loved died because of me. Ever since then, I have put love out of my mind and life.

'But now you are here and I am unsure, once again, of my feelings."

My heart leapt at this strange and random confession. Was it possible that he loved me as much as I loved him? Could he truly reciprocate my feelings? For a moment, my mind went completely numb, rational thinking was impossible. The only thing that went through my brain was the possibility that the great detective had feelings for me.

I snapped out of my reverie and stared at his well-toned form. From his silence, I gathered that any more conversation on the subject was unwelcome. I knew that if I pressed him any further, he would only retreat back into his shell of no emotions and never venture out of it again.

I decided to ask him a question about the case at hand, to get his mind, as well as mine, off other things. "Holmes, how do you know Erik killed because his privacy was disturbed?"

"Honestly Mackenzie, you showed such promise before of being able to put together a chain of deductive reasoning! What has happened to your mind?" His words were harsh, I liked to believe they were harsher than he intended, but that, I fear, I will never know.

"I don't know Holmes," I replied icily. "Gee, perhaps all of us in the world aren't as intelligent as you! And maybe all of us cannot possibly understand the way your mind works!"

Holmes grunted and deigned to answer me. "If our Phantom did not murder out of malice, but the murder was intentional, there are very few motives left for homicide.

'Our antagonist has a deformity on his face, one of the only logical reasons he would constantly wear a mask," he said anticipating my question. "As you stated before, I deduced from the scrap of silk from Perros, he does not venture into the daylight. These two findings led me to deduce that he is an extremely private individual.

'Since Buquet was found murdered in the cellars, the fabled Phantom's lair, and had no connection with Mademoiselle Daaé, the only possible motive for murder was Erik felt threatened by Buquet's presence."

I won't deny that he great detective impressed me with his reasoning. All those loose threads, that I could not make head nor tail of, he summed up in a matter of seconds. To me, that type of reasoning ability was unheard of.

"Amazing Holmes," I said not bothering to hide my admiration. "Just one question."

"Hmm?"

"How do you know so much about Erik?"

I could sense Holmes's sardonic smile in the blackness. "One tortured soul can connect with another," he murmured softly. His tone then took on one of a lecturing professor. "Our Phantom, although he does not realize it, leaves behind many clues. Once I found these clues, I was able to piece together Erik's personality--"

"Sorta like a profiler?"

"A what?"

"In the time where I'm from, the FBI or Federal Bureau of Investigation has what are known as criminal profilers. They look at all the evidence and try to get into the criminal's mind. It's really cool."

"I take it you are planning on pursuing that profession?"

"Yuppers," I replied with a grin.

I could sense Holmes raise his eyebrows. "It's just an expression Holmes."

"I see," he answered quickly.

The sound of water was completely audible and the darkness impenetrable when we finally stopped our relentless pace. The light from the dark lantern did little to cut through the gloom.

"All right Holmes, we're down here, in what I assume to be the fifth cellar of Garnier's Palace. Now, would you mind telling me exactly you propose to do here?"

"We are going to cross the lake and see if our Phantom makes his home down here."

_Goody Goody!_ The thought of plunging into icy water that I couldn't see and had no way of judging its depth did not appeal to me.

"Mr. Detective, how exactly do you plan to cross the lake? I sure as hell aint gonna swim across it!"

Suddenly, the meager light from the dark lantern disappeared, plunging me into total darkness.

"Oh shit! Holmes, what the hell happened?"

When I received no answer, fear began to claw at my chest, causing it to tighten. I closed my eyes and opened them in vain attempt to make the darkness disappear. I had no luck.

_Okay girl, calm down! Mac, relax deep breaths! That's it. Holmes has to be somewhere nearby. _

My judgment and sense of direction was thrown off, and I did not know what way I was facing or what way I had to go to get back to the stairs. I was royally screwed! I felt tears of fear and frustration well up in my eyes and I angrily blinked them back.

_This is no time to loose it kid! Crying will get you no where. Why don't you…what the fuck?_

A loud booming sound interrupted my mental chastising. I heard it again and I realized the sound came from a pipe organ. A haunting and chilling melody echoed through the lowest cellar; notes strung together by ominous chords.

I strained my ears to get a fix on the sound, but to no avail. The chords were reverberating off the cement walls, making it impossible to find its source.

I shivered involuntarily and fervently wished I could find Holmes. I called his name, but only the echo of my voice answered me.

_Is he all right? What if Erik got him? Could he be lying hurt somewhere, calling out for help but his voice is too soft to be heard above the din? _

The thought of Holmes hurt frightened me more then the darkness and Erik. I took a deep breath and called the detective's name at the top of my voice. My voice tore through the resonating and reverberating organ chords, causing a cacophony of sound to spiral toward the ceiling.

When I received no reply, I opened my mouth to yell again when I felt a strong hand grab me from behind and cover my mouth.

Another arm went around my chest and started pulling me in the opposite direction. I struggled, attempting to kick or punch my assailant. Several of my blows hit home but I was not released.

When I felt my foot touch water, I simultaneously heard a voice at my ear.

"If I let you go, do you promise not to make another sound?"

"Mmffmf!" I tried to answer but no intelligible words came out. My fear turned to anger when I realized my mugger was none other then Sherlock Holmes.

"Was that a yes?"

I nodded and felt Holmes remove his hand from my mouth and arm from around me. Instantly, I whirled around and pushed him squarely in the chest. "What the fuck were you thinking? I thought you were hurt! Dear Lord I thought Erik had you! What the fuck is wrong with you? Scaring me half to death like that!"

Holmes grabbed my hands and held them tightly so I could not strike him again. "Are you quite finished?" He asked with a hard edge to his voice. "The lantern the management gave us ran out of oil. I was attempting to find a way to cross the lake without its aid."

"I take it you found one?" I whispered with some heat.

"Yes."

"You could elaborate."

As an answer, Holmes let go of my hands and I heard a splash in the water.

"I am NOT swimming."

"You do not have to. I found a punt."

"A what?"

"A punt. It is a small boat."

"How convenient. Is it safe?"

"I believe it will hold us both."

"How, oh mighty one, do you propose I get into the damn thing when I can't even see it?"

"I will direct you," came the detective's soft reply. "Take ten paces forward and then turn to your left."

Mentally, I counted out my steps. When I reached pace five I was ankle deep in the frigid water. Silently, I cursed Erik, Holmes and the incompetent management. "Seven, eight, nine, ten! Ready or not here I come! You said to turn to my left, right?"

"Right."

"Wait, I thought you said turn left!"

"I did!"

"No, you said right!"

I heard his exasperated sigh. "I meant that you were correct when you said to turn left."

"Gotcha," I muttered. "Christ, you could've explained that better."

"Are you facing your left?"

"Oui Monsieur."

"Good, now take four paces forward. You will feel the punt and my hand."

"You know something Holmes? This whole thing sucks! Three, four! Okay where is your hand?"

"Here," I felt his icy grip on my wrist. "I'm going to pull you up."

With some effort, I managed to get inside the punt; my weight caused it to rock and water to splash over its side onto the bottom of the craft.

"Well that was bloody fun!" I said with some asperity. "I wanna do it again sometime."

"Quiet!" he barked. He lifted a large pole and hit me on the side of the head with it as he moved it forward.

"Hey watch it!" I said rubbing my head.

"Hush!"

"Sorry," I whispered, watching my words turn to vapor. I sat moodily against one of the sides of the punt, attempting to see through the darkness.

The water of the lake was a phosphorescent blue and gave off a slight glow, making the darkness more bearable.

Holmes rowed for about a quarter of an hour while I sat shivering. The movement and constant rowing forced the detective to remove his jacket; his white shirt was unnaturally bright in the shadows.

Out of no where, a faint sound could be heard above the splashing of the pole. It sounded like a female's voice singing a wordless melody. Being interested in the paranormal, I checked with Holmes to see if he too heard the voice.

He answered in the affirmative. A few seconds later, the sound grew louder and I was certain a female was singing.

"Do you think it is Christine?"

"No, the pitch of this voice is an octave higher than hers."

"Well then, who do you think it is?"

"I must confess that I haven't the slightest idea."

"Are we going to check it out? You know, see if we can find the source of it?"

As an answer, I felt the punt turn in a different direction. Holmes was as curious as I to find the origin of the voice.

"How do you know where we are going?"

"I've been counting columns."

"Oh," I had no idea what he was talking about but I refused to admit that.

Much to my joy, the singing grew louder, indicating that we were heading in the correct direction.

"It's getting louder," I informed.

"Yes, my hearing is not impaired."

"'My hearing is not impaired' well excuse me for observing something," I grumbled.

I kept my ears pealed, listening to the beautiful and sense numbing music. I closed my eyes to listen as the singing reached a crescendo—

Suddenly, the boat capsized and I found myself sinking in the icy water. Water filled my nose and mouth and subsequently my lungs. I forced my eyes open and looked around the water for Holmes but it was as black as pitch and I couldn't see a thing.

My lungs burned for air and I made to swim for the surface, but something held me back. I used more of my strength in attempt to break the surface, but it was to no avail. I looked behind me and to my dismay I saw two amber orbs floating in the inky water!

Panic filled me and I began to thrash wildly. My lungs burned and my head started to swim. I thrashed harder as my vision turned to black. My last thought before I slipped into unconsciousness was Holmes's safety.

"Mackenzie! Mackenzie!" A faraway voice stirred my memory, but I couldn't for the life of me place it. I was too tired to think, my mind felt clogged and my eyes remained closed, for I didn't have the strength to open them.

"Mackenzie!" I felt lips on my own and a great pressure on my chest. Air seemed to enter my lungs as water rose to my throat. I began to cough spitting up water as I did so.

Slowly I opened my eyes but everything was blurry. My lungs burned for air and once again lips were on mine, forcing air into my lungs. I coughed up more water.

My vision started to clear and I blinked my eyes several times.

"Mackenzie, thank God!" Two strong arms drew me into a tight embrace. When I smelt sandalwood mixed with wet fabric, I knew it was Sherlock Holmes.

I put my arms around him and rested my fogged head against his soaking we shoulder. We sat like that for several minutes. "Holmes, what happened?" I rasped.

"Thank God you're all right," he whispered. "I thought I lost you."

As my mind cleared, memories rushed to me. I remembered those bright amber eyes and the woman's voice.

"Holmes," I grasped his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you. Mackenzie; do you think you are strong enough to sit on your own?"

I nodded and felt the comfortable weight of his arm leave my back. We separated and I looked into his face. Even in the strange erratic light from the lake, I saw his eyes bright with unshed tears.

My heart hammered against my chest when I saw the open, unguarded look of concern on his face. _He cares about me! I mean something to him!_

"Holmes, what happened?" I asked, attempting to restore some normalcy to our situation. "I remember a voice, then water all around me and amber eyes…"

He put a finger against my lips to silence me. He cleared his throat and spoke softly. "Erik attempted to kill us and he very nearly succeeded. Everything I said about him before is true. Christine Daaé is with him, that much is clear and he is willing to do everything and anything in his power to keep her in his possession.

'We are playing on a double edged sword Mackenzie. I must protect both young de Chagny and Mademoiselle Daaé from Erik's wrath; the consequences if I fail are dire."

"How do you know Christine is with him?"

"I saw her. It is because of her that Erik let go of me, and I was able to save you." There was sadness in Holmes's grey eyes; the reason would be made known to me. "Mackenzie," his voice shook slightly, "I want you and your friend to leave Watson and me. I will give you money for a new place of lodging but you must stay away from us."

I was hurt by his sudden dismissal of me. "Why? I thought we were in this together!"

"I have my reasons!"

"Then tell me!" My tone matched his in iciness.

"You want to know? Fine, I will tell you! Your presence in a distraction and I have made several blunders! Erik has attempted your life three times now and I refuse to allow you to die because of me.

'I want you out of my life Mackenzie Sterling! Go back where you came from and leave me alone. Allow me some peace of mind!" The intensity of his words echoed loudly in the subterranean cavern.

His words were a dagger in me. I felt tears fill my eyes but I tried my hardest to keep them from spilling out. "Fine Holmes, if that is what you really want I will go."

"It is not what I really want!" he blurted out. "But with you around, I have to think of my past, think of how your emotions cannot be, think about how I will destroy you in time! Those memories are distracting me from the problem at hand!"

I raised my hand and pushed a piece of raven hair behind his ear, ignoring the fact that his body tensed when I touched him in that manner. "My dear Holmes," I tried to hide the hurt in my voice. "You do not have to shoulder this burden alone."

"I do not under stand," he said, his eyes full of confusion.

"You continually get distracted because you are trying so hard to hide your past from me. Talk to me Holmes, tell me why you are afraid of me, afraid to show how you feel."

"I am not afraid--"

"I can see it in your eyes Holmes. Why do you want to send me away when you care so much about me? Tell me."

**Holmes**

Her question caught me off guard. How was I to tell her that if I allowed myself to…to care about her, I would only destroy her in the end? How do I say that any woman I allow myself to get close to dies? Do I tell her how Mother died because of me?

I took a deep breath. "I want you to leave because if you get any closer to me you will end up dead." I chose my words carefully. "Mother did."

She looked at me with surprise. It was her turn to question what I meant. She did not disappoint and the next words out of her mouth were: "Holmes, what do you mean?"

I had no answer for her. At that moment Watson's words entered my mind. "You are not to blame Holmes, for the death of your parents…your mother did not know what to do. Do you honestly think she liked seeing you put through such pain? You were and still are her son Holmes; surely you realize she loved you." Could Watson be right? Is it possible that just because Mother loved me and visa versa, that I did not cause her death? Could my disciplined mind have strayed so far from the truth that I have misjudged everything about love and my past?

I realized my silence was wronging Mackenzie. I had to say something, but what? "You would not understand."

"Try me," her hand moved to stroke the side of my face and I inhaled sharply, grasping her hand. The familiarity of that touch stung me; it caused a barrage of emotions to assault my brain. Her innocent gesture brought the humiliating memories of my past to the forefront of my mind.

"Please, do not touch me in that manner. It--"

"What? Holmes, please tell me!" The pleading tone of her voice shook me far more than I cared to admit.

"You would simply turn from me! Everyone else has everyone save Watson."

"Why didn't Watson turn from you?" For once, I could not read between her words.

I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to seem indifferent.

"He didn't turn from you because he cares about you. Don't you realize I feel strongly about you too?"

Her words put me in an awkward position. Should I tell her? Could she understand? Could she help me like she claimed? Is my piece of mind so important that I could risk loosing the one woman I…?

There was only one thing I could do. I had to tell her. Watson was correct, I was being unfair. I had to let her know where I stood.

I cleared my throat and averted my eyes from her young face. This was going to be more difficult than when I told Watson.

"Mackenzie," my voice was much softer then I wanted it to be. "I feel it is only proper for me to put things in perspective, so to speak. What I am about to tell you, Watson is the only person, save my brother who knows.

'I pray you do not interrupt; for once my…my narrative is interrupted I shall not be able to continue. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

I took a deep breath. "My Father was a vile, wicked man…"

**Mac**

The tragic tale he told me has already been recorded by Watson, elsewhere in this narrative and I do not see a need to reiterate it. In all honesty, I could never set it down because the very thought of what Holmes's father did to him fills me with a rage I have never before felt and am not likely to feel again.

When Holmes finished speaking, tears were freely cascading down his face. I was too shocked to speak. Although I had expected to hear something horrible, nothing could have prepared me for what I heard.

When my mind could once again function, I wrapped my arms around Holmes's shaking body and drew him close to me. I pressed his over-wrought head against my shoulder and ran a comforting hand through his wet, glistening hair.

I said nothing for my actions spoke louder than any words I could have spoken. I held him tightly and gently rocked him back and forth, attempting to calm him.

"You're safe from him now Sherlock," I whispered into his ear. "He's never going to hurt you again."

We sat together for several minutes, neither of us saying anything. Holmes's tears stopped and we sat in the cloak of darkness, wrapped in each others arms.

Eventually, he tried to push me away, but I held him fast. "I love you and always will, regardless of what happened in your past."

"Thank you," he whispered softly.

"I know you don't believe me," I said making my voice light. "But it is true."

Holmes successfully pushed away from me and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Now you know. You know why you have to leave. Why I cannot understand your feelings or my own. But I do know I do not want to see you hurt because of your feelings for me."

"You'll destroy me if you send me away Holmes. There's no place I would rather be then at your side."

There was silence for several minutes; Holmes was trying to weigh my words and the meaning behind them. Suddenly, he broke our silence. "Come along then," he said getting to his feet. He offered me his hand, which I took and helped me to stand. "We have much to do yet."

I grinned and squeezed his hand. "What else?"

In the dim light from the lake, I could see the lines of fear and agony slowly disappear from his face. He seemed more relaxed as though a great weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"I am more determined then ever to see Erik's lair. Once we find that, we will return to the hotel and put on some dry clothing. Then you will stay with your friend and Watson while I return here to sift through ponderous tomes in the opera's library."

"Definitely sounds like fun," I said sarcastically. "I'll pass on the research."

Once again, we lapsed into silence. I followed the detective along the muddy banks of the lake. After walking for God knows how long, I was able to see a faint light in the distance.

"What's that?"

"Hush! Not a sound," Holmes hissed. "We must be very quiet."

I raised my hand and kept my eyes open, peering into the darkness. As we walked, the light grew brighter; it took me a moment to realize that the light I saw was coming from windows of a house.

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it when I remembered Holmes's warning not to make a sound.

When I was able to make out the faint outline of the house, Holmes stopped and I felt one of his icy hands close around my wrist as he pulled me into shadows.

"You must stay quiet, do you understand? Don't answer me, just nod."

I followed his instructions and he moved next to me.

In a few minutes, I heard the faint click of a lock being removed and then a spill of light cut through the darkness.

The light took me completely by surprise and blinded me momentarily. Standing in the doorway, framed by light was none other then Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.

"Take the boat and go! You know the way," his voice was extremely cold. I had no idea who he was talking to.

I pulled on Holmes's shirt but he covered my mouth with his hand and pushed us until our backs were flat against the wall.

"I…I don't know what to say…" I nearly gasped aloud when I heard Christine's voice.

"You've said enough!" Erik bellowed. "Now you cannot ever be free! Damn you!"

"I--"

"Go! Go now!"

Christine rushed out of the house and hurried into a small boat at the lake's edge.

Erik remained standing in the doorway, his amber eyes stared after Christine long after the boat disappeared.

"I swear on my life that boy will never get near Christine! Damn you de Chagny!" Erik yelled into the darkness. He then turned on his heel and slammed the door loudly behind him.

Once the slam of the door died into oblivion, Holmes gently tugged my wrist, signaling it was safe to exit our hiding spot.

I knew better then to ask Holmes any questions. We walked around the perimeter of the small building and Holmes was mentally taking measurements as we walked. When he finally decided we could leave, his face was rueful.

We once again walked along the bank of the lake in silence.

"What's the matter?"

"The measurements do not add up!" He growled.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The perimeter of the house," he said angrily, "one side is longer then the rest!"

I did not see the significance of this observation and told him so.

"Mon Dieu woman! Are you dense? Can't you see he has an extra room?"  
_Mac do you really love him?_

_Yeah!_

"Holmes, a lot of people have extra rooms in their houses. There is nothing unusual--"

"Silence!" Holmes thundered. "I have no time for dolts!"

I bit my lips so I would not say anything to enrage him. Relating his painful past to me was emotionally draining and I was slightly more tolerant of his violent mood swings, knowing where they came from. Even still, it was hard for me to swallow his belittling comments.

He stopped walking and turned to face me. He took my hands in his and did something that nearly made me faint.

He smiled a smile that lit up his entire face and grabbed me in his arms, drawing me close to him. "I am so sorry," he said, leaning his head atop mine. He spoke into my short blond locks, his breath tickling my scalp. "I am so sorry."

I wasn't sure if he was apologizing for calling me a dolt or for putting me through such emotional turmoil. But truth be told, I didn't care.

"You've nothing to apologize for," I said into his chest.

"I apologize for treating you so shabbily," he said softly.

Although his sweet apology sent my heart soaring, I was a little unnerved by his sudden change of mood.

"You do realize that you are out of character, right?"

It took a minute for my words to register in his mind. When they did, he pulled away from me. "I…I don't know what came over me. I…I just had the strongest desire to hold you." He frowned in confusion, his actions startled him. More then his actions, I think his desire frightened him.

_I've had that desire for a very long time._

"It's all right Holmes," I said reaching to stroke his face.

He stopped me. He stopped my hand before, but I didn't know why. Even in the erratic lighting, I could see the paleness of his face and the look of sheer terror in his eyes. "Holmes, what's the matter? What did I do?" My voice sounded slightly shrill because I was worried about him.

"I will tell you again, do not touch me in that manner," his voice was hoarse.

Confusion entered my mind. "Hey, sure, I'm sorry. I forgot that you told me not to. I didn't mean to startle you."

He smiled weakly. "I suppose I should tell you why."

"Only if you want to," I said gently.

He took a deep breath and looked into the lake. When he spoke, his voice was extremely soft. "Father touched me in such a manner at night."

Once the meaning of his words sunk in, I hugged his tense body tightly. "Oh Holmes!" I rubbed his back soothingly, which caused him to tense even more. "I am so sorry; I never meant to remind you…" I stopped speaking, too embarrassed to finish my thought. "You'll put this nightmare behind you Holmes, but you won't do it alone. I'll be with you every step of the way."

He extricated himself from my embrace and without a word took my hand in his. I squeezed his hand reassuringly and together, we made our way out of the cellars and to the hotel hand in hand.

When we reached our hotel room, a new bond formed between us. However, I think I can speak for us both when I say we would have rather stayed in the opera house then enter our hotel room.

Waiting for us in the sitting room, seated between Becky and Watson, was the sniveling viscount de Chagny.

As soon as we entered and Holmes released my hand, a gesture that was not lost on Becky or Watson, Raoul jumped to his feet and demanded to know where Holmes had been.

"I was out," the detective said pealing off his jacket which was made wetter by the storm that raged outside our windows.

Raoul began to angrily pace the small sitting room. "I have been waiting here Monsieur Holmes, for over two hours! I walked here in the pouring rain and in the process, ruined my new suit!"

"Yes, I see that," Holmes replied without enthusiasm. "I too was caught in the storm," he said indicating his soaked attire. "So Monsieur le Vicomte, I am in a hurry to change into dry garments so I would appreciate it if you would state your case and state it quickly."

Raoul groaned and I looked over at Watson, thankfully catching his eye. "Hey Doc, can I talk to you for a minute?" I was desperate to speak with him.

It was quite obvious that Watson wanted to avoid listening to the troubles of the maudlin viscount for he excused himself and followed me into my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Thank God," he said when we were alone. "I do not believe I could listen to any more of that youth's complaining."

I chuckled and flopped down on my bed. Taking my unspoken cue, Watson sat beside me. "What is troubling you?"

"Holmes told me," I said plainly.

Watson raised his eyebrows, indicating that he was unsure of what I was talking about.

"He told me what his father did to him."

Watson instantly placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "I can only imagine how it affected you."

"Doc I never guessed…" I shrugged in spite of myself. "What's worse is, when I tried to comfort him, he grew frightened because I reminded him of his Father."

I proceeded to tell Watson of the day's events, leaving nothing out.

"Will he ever escape from his Father?" I asked when I concluded. "Will the demons of his past ever give him respite?"

Watson hugged me in a fatherly embrace and smoothed my hair. "You are so young and yet you are faced with so many hardships. I cannot answer your questions Mackenzie. But I can say with confidence, that if you are gentle with him, perhaps his father's ghost will cease to haunt him."

I hugged Watson for giving me hope. I owed the man so much but had no way to repay him. "Thanks Doc."

"Any time," he rose to go but stopped at the door. "He does love you, you know. You just have to show him how much he loves you." With that Watson was gone, leaving me to contemplate his words.


	48. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty Seven: Unexpected Developments**

**The Phantom**

"Erik, do you love me?"

Her question startled me. I did not anticipate it. What could I have done? I answered her honestly. I told Christine that she was my sun and my moon. I told her that I could not live without her. I told her I fell in love with her the moment I heard her voice from beyond the mirror in her dressing room.

She winced and paled at my words. It seemed as though I had struck her. "I see. Erik, if you love me, why haven't you showed me your face?"

"Christine, you do not know what you are asking," I warned. She did not realize the severity of her request.

"But Erik, I have seen your soul. You have shared your music with me. Why do you not share your face?"

Oh Christine! If only you did not ask that question! "No one sees my face and lives Mademoiselle." I was being truthful; I tried to dissuade her from wanting to see beyond my mask. She refused to heed my warning.

Before I knew what was happening, her small ivory hand was at my face. I was so startled by her boldness that I did not realize she was deftly untying the strings that held my mask in place. When she drew her hand away, it took me a moment before I realized my mask was gone! That moment destroyed all that I have strove to create!

I keep seeing her face in my mind! Her light blue orbs full of curiosity and then they filled with extreme horror before my eyes! Her face paled, her hands shook and then, with a little cry of despair, she closed her eyes and buried her head in her arms.

I could not stop the anger that clawed at me! The rage that was boiling in my soul since the day of my conception burst forth and I rounded fiercely on Christine, grabbing her hair and pulling it, forcing her to look at my cadaverous face.

"You wanted to see my face, so now look upon it! Look at it Christine!" Then, I grabbed her hand and forced her to touch the uneven and scarred skin. "What do you think of it Christine? Is it as smooth as the skin of your precious vicomte?"

Her gasps of terror still echo in my ears! I pressed her nails into the disfigured skin, deep enough to draw blood. "How does it feel Christine?"

My hand strays on its own accord as the memories replay themselves before my mind's eye, and unties the strings that keep my mask against my face. My hand brings the mask down so I can stare into its empty eyeholes. They represent my life without Christine. My life, like those eyeholes, is an empty abyss of grief and unspeakable sorrow. Gently I caress the three long jagged marks on the side of my face, made by Christine.

"Christine," my lips barely form the word. Her name is holy and should be revered. "Christine, you've ruined everything. Why did you need to see my face? Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone?"

I throw my mask across the room, hearing the black porcelain shatter as it hits the wall. I burry my face in my hands and sob quietly. The hot tears sear the overly sensitive skin, reminding me of all the pain in my life. The heat of the tears reminds me of the terrible secret that was confirmed today, my dear Christine is engaged to that wretched de Chagny!

After I caused the chandelier to fall, I followed Christine and de Chagny to the roof. I hid behind Apollo, and listened to them conversing. I heard him confess his love for her and I listened as my Christine mirrored his feelings. I watched their forms mold together in a kiss, sealing their vows, against the ever darkening sky. Then, I heard a faint _ping_ as the gold ring I had given Christine fell against the rooftop. It was then that a cry of anguish escaped my lips and broke the stillness of the night, causing the two young 'lovers' to release each other and glance around attempting to find the source of the sound.

Anger fills me and I have the worst desire to feel the fop's neck break in my hands. The numbing sensation as the third vertebrata of the spine snaps and hits the hand where the fingers meet the palm, is one of the greatest feelings in the world. I can see de Chagny's neck bent at a forty degree angle, his lifeless eyes staring at me while I hold Christine in my arms. His blond hair will fall onto slowly cooling skin, and his mouth will droop open, his tongue hanging from it with saliva running down his chin.

I force myself back from my fantasy of the dead vicomte and raise my head to stare at the shattered pieces of my mask. I can no longer see the black lacquer but in its place I see the pale skin of de Chagny. Although I have always followed Death and have always been a good disciple of Her, I cannot stop my heart from quaking because She has completely taken over my thoughts. Everywhere I look, I the corpse of Raoul de Chagny and cannot help but feel gratification from those visions.

"Death, my goddess, are you giving me a sign? Are you telling me I must kill that boy in order to save Christine from his clutches?"

A tremor goes through my body as I realize that I need Christine as much as I need my music. My love for music is intertwined with my love for Christine. It is impossible to separate the two. I cannot live without them both.

"Tomorrow night, at the masquerade, I will take my Christine back!"

**Mac**

Watson's words made no sense to me. I couldn't believe that Holmes would consciously love me. After pondering the Doc's words of wisdom for awhile, I remembered that I was still soaking wet. I decided to get into a hot tub of water and allow the soothing soap to wish away all my anxieties.

I exited the bathroom a half hour later, in my jeans and my soccer jersey, feeling much more relaxed. The long soak helped me put everything in perspective: I love Holmes, Holmes cannot love me because he fears he'll destroy me, Watson thinks Holmes does love me, there is a crazy guy named Erik who has tried to kill me several times, Erik wants Christine and Christine wants Raoul.

Something was telling me there was going to be an explosion of emotion soon, but I had no idea when the explosion was going to occur and what made me feel that way. If only I'd known how soon the explosion was going to take place, I would have worked that last day out slightly differently.

But, as it were, I reentered the sitting room to find Watson speaking with one of the maids.

"Oh, sorry Doc," I said turning to leave.

"You weren't interrupting a thing Mackenzie," Watson said smiling at me. "Attempting to get comfortable?"

I looked down at my attire and smiled. "Yeah, I don't feel like putting on one of those damned dresses."

The good doctor laughed. "Well, I cannot say I blame you."

"Where's Holmes anyway?"

"Oh yes, he gave me instructions to give you. He is at the opera house library. You and your friend are to find suitable costumes to wear to the masked ball tomorrow night."

"Masked ball? Whoa! When did this occur?"

Watson smiled. "Raoul de Chagny invited us to accompany him to the opera's annual masked ball."

"I take it Christine is performing?"

Watson raised his eyebrows. "How did you know that?"

"Simple Doc," I replied, throwing my head back with a laugh. "Why else would the fop want to go to a masquerade?"

"Mackenzie, Mackenzie what am I going to do with you?" Watson asked good-humoredly.

"Put up with me Doc," I said with a smile. "What did the fop want anyway?"

Watson shook his head. "He has informed us that Christine Daaé has disappeared--"

"Duh! Holmes already knew that!"

"So I heard. He also informed us that Christine wants to meet him tomorrow night on the Grand Tier at the Opera House."

"Fun, fun! Hey, Doc, what do you consider suitable attire for a masquerade?"

Doctor Watson shrugged his broad shoulders. "What would you wear at home?"

I thought for a few moments, trying to figure out how to answer him. "Well one Halloween, Becky went trick-or-treating dressed as a hooker. I went as a stoned hippie that year! Man was that ever fun!"

Watson raised his eyebrows. "I am not sure…"

I chuckled at his ignorance. "Becky dressed up as a prostitute and I dressed up as a guy that was addicted to drugs, wore bright colors and had huge hair!"

Watson turned an interesting color. "I…I do not suggest that sort of outfit--"

"Chill Doctor Watson, I'll make sure Mac doesn't get high!"

I turned around and grinned at my best friend and 'sister'. "And I'll make sure you don't go making any money with your body."

"But Mac, that's the fun of Halloween!"

"That's the fun of every single day of your life."

"You know you want me," my best friend said, making her voice low and seductive.

"Oh yes Beck, more then you can possibly imagine," I replied, barely controlling my laughter.

"Come here sexy and I'll show you some ways to investigate your stud muffin!"

"Becky," I injected a low warning note in my voice. After all I learned about Sherlock Holmes, no one was going to ridicule him around me.

"What's the matter? Don't you want to investigate his body? I mean he should want to investigate yours, that is unless he's not the man you make him out to be," the lilting tone in her voice made me want to smash my fist into her nose.

"That is quite enough! I don't mind you ridiculing me, but the minute--"

"You wanna protect your sexy detective from any harm? Aww how sweet!"

"Becky if you don't stop right now, I swear to God, I will make what I did to you in Perros look like child's play," I growled.

Her face turned ashen and her hand involuntarily rubbed her throat. "Okay, okay I'm sorry. God Mac, I don't know what the hell has happened to your sense of humor."

I sighed, knowing she was right. Before this entire time travel thing, I had been voted most funny in my high school yearbook. I use to be able to laugh at anything and in turn make others laugh. Now my mind felt much too heavy for laughter and amusement. My heart was weighed down by both love and pain, making frivolity seem as though it was a thing from another place and time. Would I ever be able to go back to the fun loving girl I once was? I highly doubted it.

I forced a smile. "I don't know Beck," I said pushing wet hair from my eyes. "Let's just say that today was a very stressful day."

"Yeah, but it's only the evening."

"Don't remind me, okay?"

"You wanna talk about anything?" I was shocked to hear genuine concern in her voice.

"Nah, not really. Thanks though," I said. I turned and looked at Watson who was observing us with raised eyebrows. "Hey Doc, what are you gonna wear tomorrow night?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. I'm sure Holmes will have some notion."

"Hey Beck, you up for a little shopping?" I asked over my shoulder.

"I was wondering when the hell you were gonna ask. Aint I the shopaholic here?"

"That you are Beck. Lemme just change into something more acceptable in Victorian society. All right?"

"Sure, but hurry up!"

I retreated to my bedroom and a moment later emerged wearing a cream colored dressed. "Hey Doc, you wanna come with us?"

Doctor Watson shook his head. "No, thank you anyway Mackenzie. Here," he reached into the pocket of his trousers and removed a beat-up wallet. He opened it and removed several bills. "You'll need more money then you've got."

"Doc, I can't accept this," I said seeing the wad of cash he was handing me.

"Sure you can," he pressed the bills into my gloved palm. "Now the two of you had best find suitable costumes, not too revealing. There are to be no prostitutes or drug addicts accompanying us to the masked ball."

With a laugh, Becky and I left our hotel room.

"Well, well I'm glad to finally have some time alone with you," Becky said as we stepped onto the crowded Paris street.

"Ditto," I replied. "I missed just hanging out with you."

"Not too much though," she replied. "I know you like chillin' with Holmes. Even though I mess with you, between us, he's a cool guy and he's good for ya."

I was taken aback by Becky's statement. "You serious? Well thanks, I think."

She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of indifference. "Yeah, but what I mean is he's good for now, while we're stuck here in the nineteenth century. However, once we get home, I expect you to forget all about him."

_Easier said then done._ "Yeah, well--"

"Well nothing! When we get home, I'm going to introduce you to so many guys you're gonna say Sherlock who!"

I sighed and continued to walk. There was no way she was ever going to understand my feelings. "Beck, that is all well and good and I appreciate your concern, I really do, it's just that--"

"Just that what?"

I sighed. "Beck, have you ever been in love?"

My question startled her. When her surprise disappeared, she busted out laughing. "Lust, absolutely, love forget it! Takes the fun outta everything, especially outta sex. I mean who wants to go down on the same guy every day of their life? I certainly don't!"

I shook my head. "You're sick; you do realize that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. But why the hell are you asking me about love?"

I sighed angrily. My best friend was defiantly extremely dense. "Becky," I made sure I spoke in measured tones, keeping my words deliberate. "I am in love with Sherlock Holmes."

She raised her reddish eyebrows. "You're shitting me right?"

"I shit you not," I replied evenly. "I thought you knew. I mean you heard me tell him at Perros."

"Yeah but I didn't think you fuckin' meant it! I mean hell this changes everything! I mean…oh shit! Wait, are you sure? I mean one hundred percent sure?"

I shook my head good-humoredly. My dearest friend remained dense as ever. "Yes, I am totally sure. In fact, I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"Then, wait you can forget love, can't you? I mean you can fall in love with someone else, it's been done, hasn't it?"

"So I've heard, but they say you never forget your first love. I mean, hell I don't want to forget him, I want to be with him forever!"

"You're not serious!"

"As serious as cardiac arrest," I replied.

"Holy hell!"

"Well I don't believe I've ever heard that expression before mon amie!" I said forcing a smile. I was trying to pretend that Becky and I were walking the paved streets of twenty first century New York City rather then the cobblestone streets of nineteenth century Paris.

"…love that's a strong emotion Mac…" Becky's pseudo-logic about love drifted in one of my ears and out the other, barely registering in my over-wrought brain. I was lost in thought about how, in the span of a few months, my life had changed. The twenty first century and all its conveniences seemed so far away. My desire for Shawn seemed childish compared with my love for Sherlock Holmes, and I blushed when I recalled it. Holmes's painful confession replayed itself over and over like a broken record in my mind. Blind rage and hatred clawed at my soul like never before. Hatred for Holmes's father, hatred for the world that shunned the detective, hatred for the lover in his mother's life, and most of all hatred for all my foolish actions, my botched showings of affection which caused him to remember the horror of his youth. "…he's great for now…your parents wouldn't like it…you're only seventeen…society would condemn…"

_Society would condemn. Oh yes, they've condemned all right. They shunned a man, made him feel like an outcast for something that he did not do! Society molded Holmes to feel contemptuous toward others, made him feel unlovable. Society allowed a man to sexually assault his son and get away with it. Society has done its part to ruin Holmes's early life. It sure as hell isn't going to ruin my life with him. _

"…Mac," Becky slapped me hard on the arm, breaking my thoughts into a million pieces, each too small to pick up and form another coherent idea. "Hey Mac, are you even listening to me?"

"What? Oh yeah, sure I was. Society condemns and I totally agree with that sentiment."

"You didn't hear anything I said, did you?"

"Sure I did," I lied. "You said that I am only seventeen, too young to fall in love. May I remind you that you are only sixteen and that you are already sexually active?"

"That is not the point Mackenzie and you know it."

"Then pray tell me, what is the point Becky? You can sleep with men whom you don't have feelings for and yet society will condemn me for falling in love with a man a few years my senior? Is that what you are trying to say?" I couldn't help my voice rising to a belligerent pitch.

"Yes, that is what I am trying to say. It is wrong for you to fall in love so young."

"And it's fine for you to sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harriet that comes along, right?"

"Yup."

I shook my head contemptuously. "Society is fucked up!" I said caustically. "Totally fucked up."

"I'll second you on that one Mac."

"Young men can be sent to fight in a senseless war for oil; some older men and men of the cloth can molest young children without repercussion. And yet, according to you, it is wrong for me to love Holmes because he is older then me. The world today, it's a sad state of affairs, if you ask me. A very sad state." I shrugged and looked into one of the store windows we were passing as we walked aimlessly. A flash of gold caught the corner of my eye, and I stopped mid-stride to peer into the window of a pawn shop.

Sitting amongst various rings and necklaces, on a platform of purple velvet, was the most handsome pocket watch I had ever seen. The gold cover was engraved with an ornately inlaid ivory 'S' which shone brightly when the sun hit it. As I stared at the watch, my heart pounded in my chest and I knew I had to buy that watch for Holmes, no matter the cost.

"Come on," I said, grabbing Becky's hand and pulling her into the door of the pawn shop.

When a small bell chimed, announcing our arrival, a wizened old man in a threadbare suit looked up expectantly from a pile of strange rings. "Bon soir," said he in a gruff French accent.

"Bon soir," I replied with a slight smile. "That pocket watch in the window…"

"What about it?" His harsh mannerism did not intimidate or deter me.

"Combien coute?" (How much is it) I asked.

With a grunt of effort, the shriveled man pushed himself from his chair and limped painfully over to the window. With an ancient key, he opened a lock and removed the watch.

"This one?" He asked, looking at me over a grimy pince-nez.

I nodded. "Oui."

"This has been laying here for over two months," he said placing the watch in my hands so I could examine it more closely. "A nice specimen of workmanship, if I do say so myself."

"Yes," I replied, opening the cover. I didn't know a thing about men's pocket watches, my father always chose a Rolex wrist-watch with a Swiss balancing system to a pocket watch. The inside looked nice enough, the numbers were all written in Roman Numerals and the second hand ticked. "Combien coute?" I reiterated my earlier question.

The old man considered my question for a few minutes, as he did so, one of his tobacco stained hands unconsciously tugged at his salt and pepper muttonchops. "You buying anything else?"

_Watson! Yes, I defiantly gotta get him something._ "Yes," I replied, wandering around the small and crammed shop. "I'm just not sure what." I stopped my wanderings when I saw a gorgeous silver fountain pen collecting dust on one of the shelves. I gingerly lifted it and examined it. "This will be perfect for Watson!"

"Can you engrave things?"

The elderly man nodded. "I can do anything for a price."

"All right, how much for the pen and watch, each engraved?"

Once again the elderly man considered my words, unconsciously pulling at his muttonchops. "Does thirty francs sound about fair? I want to get rid of some of this merchandise to make room for some new goodies."

Carefully, I counted out thirty francs and handed them to the man. "Here you go," I said with a smile.

The wizened man carefully counted out the money and with a grim grin, put the cash in a drawer. "Now, young lady, what do you want on the pen?"

I though for a moment. "Doc, my dearest friend. Mac."

"And on the watch?"

"Engrave it on the inside cover, if you don't mind."

"Aye, what do you want on it?"

I thought for several moments. "SH you've stolen my heart. Love, MS 1891."

"Aye."

A quarter of an hour later, Becky and I exited the pawn shop, I in much better spirits then before.

"That was a damned waste of time," my best friend grumbled.

"You're just jealous because you didn't get anything," I said with a laugh. I held the small bag containing the gifts close to me.

"How much money do we have left for costumes?"

I felt my face fall. I had spent almost all of the money on gifts for Holmes and Watson!

"Lemme guess, we don't have a damned dime left, do we?" Becky asked, looking into my face.

"Well--"

"This sucks Mac! What are we supposed to do now?"

"I got it!" I raised my hand to signal a passing hansom cab. "The Paris Opera House!" I said as Becky and I climbed into the small vehicle.

"You're smart Mac," Becky said as we exited the opera house, costumes in hand. "You are very smart."

I grinned at her off-handed compliment. "Thanks dude," I said looking at my court jester's outfit.

"Think I'll make a good princess?"

"Absolutely."

"You can be my fool!"

"Aint I already?"

"I forgot that for a moment."

"See? That's what happens when her royal highness has forgone dinner. Her memory goes!"

"No, that is what happens when her royal highness goes shopping with her fool. Her patience, memory and money goes!"

"That maybe so," I said, thoroughly enjoying our bantering. "But upon my soul, the money that your fool spent was not given to you."

"Indeed, but my jester was a fool to spend it all!"

"You've gotten better at punning Becky," I said with a mock low bow. "I may humbly submit that you may give me a run for my money one of these days in a witticism contest."

"You, cannot fool me with flattery fool."

"Indeed, but I can amaze you with tomfoolery!"

"Touché," Becky said with a laugh. "Well done fool."

Once again I bowed deeply. "Thank you m'lady."

Becky and I shared yet another laugh as we entered the hotel lobby, both of us in better spirits then when we left several hours earlier. Darkness had covered the city of Paris in her deep purple cloak some two hours ago, but neither Becky nor I was affected by the absence of light. Our laughter and the love that caused my heart to swell for a certain black haired gentleman was a beacon that could cut through the darkest of nights.

"Well it appears that you were fruitful in your endeavors," Holmes's voice greeted us as we crossed the threshold and entered our shared sitting room.

"That we were Holmes," I said dropping my court jester's costume on the sofa with a weary air. "And the intensity of the light in your stormy eyes indicates that you met with some success at the opera."

"An astute observation," he replied dryly. There was something in his mannerism that was not right. He seemed more anxious and more restless then usual. I shrugged it off as eagerness to solve the case of the opera ghost which he claimed was close to its solution.

"No my dear Holmes, it was an elementary one."

He puffed his pipe. "I daresay Mackenzie, although you smile, your eyes betray your attempt at appearing at ease. What is troubling you?"

"Nothing that concerns you my dear detective," I said with some flippancy. "A rather trivial matter that shall be cleared up as soon as Watson joins us."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Now Holmes, why don't you tell me what you learned at the library?"

"Let us not discuss the case at hand Mackenzie, but let us clear up your little problem," Watson said striding into the sitting room. An infernal smile was written on his face as he cast a glance at his oldest friend.

"All right," I said stamping my foot. "What the hell are the two of you hiding? Holmes looks like he is going crazy with nerves and you Doc are grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Would you like to tell me what is up?"

"It is not for me to tell," the doctor said with a charming grin.

"Watson, not now," Holmes said sharply. He certainly had a chip on his shoulder! "Mackenzie, pray state your problem so that it may be solved. We have much to do between tonight and tomorrow."

With a confused glance at Watson, I reached down and picked up the bag that held my treasures from the day's shopping excursion. "Becky and I were in the city this evening, as you both know."

Holmes rapped his fingers impatiently on his thin yet muscular leg. "Pray refrain from stating the obvious."

"And," I replied ignoring Holmes's interruption, "I saw a small shop that I had to go into. There, I found the perfect gifts for two of the most perfect men I know." With a smile I reached into the bag and handed both Holmes and Watson their designated boxes.

Holmes raised his eyebrows at my speech and grunted. "I daresay I am far from perfect as is Watson. When I open this, what is going to happen?" He asked, eyeing the box warily.

"Nothing bad, if that is what you mean." I replied, impatient to see their reactions to the gifts I had bought them.

Watson was the first to open the box and when he saw the pen inside he grinned broadly. His eyes ran over the inscription and he embraced me tightly. "I feel the same way about you," he whispered onto the top of my head.

"I'm glad you like it," I said giving him a tight hug.

He released me and we both stood staring at Holmes. I was fairly shaking with anticipation. A million thoughts ran through my mind. Was he going to like it? What if he hated it? What if the inscription unnerved him? God is he hot!

With deft fingers, Holmes cautiously removed the lid of the box. I swore he thought something was going to leap out at him. When he realized that nothing was going to happen, he peered over the lid.

"Open the cover," I said as he gently lifted the watch from its box.

He obeyed and when he read the inscription, he gave a sharp intake of breath.

"Do you like it?" I asked, nervous to see his hands shaking.

Wordlessly he nodded and shrugged his slender shoulders. "I do not know what to say," he admitted with a frown.

"A thank you would be nice," Becky interjected. "She spent a shit-load of cash on it."

"Becky!" I couldn't believe her audacity.

"Sorry, but I'm just being honest," my friend replied.

"Just shut up, okay?"

Becky nodded. "Gotcha," she said.

I looked at Sherlock Holmes who was turning the watch over in his thin, nervous hands. His grey eyes took in every detail of the watch, including I am sure, the pawn shop number scratched on the back. His lips formed words that were never uttered and a look of extreme fascination and surprise stole over his features.

_Okay Mac, relax. I'm sure he likes it, you probably just shocked him. _

I bit back the urge to question him and just watched with mixed fear and amusement as he studied the timepiece.

"The previous owner," he said more to himself then to any of us present, "was a man of meticulous habits, who although had a great deal of wealth, lost his fortune and fell upon hard times. The watch was custom made for the gentleman, who's name, like my own, began with the letter 'S'. The workmanship is extraordinary, and the jeweler had an eye for detail. This watch, had it have been sold on Bond Street, would have cost the buyer several hundred pounds."

While the detective prated about his observations, I stole a glance at Watson who had the most insufferable grin on his features. _What secret does Watson know and why the hell is he hiding it? _

My thoughts were interrupted, when Holmes put the watch carefully in his pocket and smiled briefly. "Thank you very much Mackenzie," he murmured. "It was indeed thoughtful of you."

I very nearly sighed with relief. "I'm glad you like it Holmes. Wear it in good health."

His nervousness at something was still evident in his mannerism but he tried his best to hide it. "Well, now that your problem is cleared up, I suggest we discuss the case at hand."

I seated myself on the sofa. "I'm all attention."

Watson smiled. "Good, but I am rather hungry. Becky, would you care to join me for a bit of sustenance?"

"But what about--"

"Come along Becky," Watson said, his voice although light had an under riding tone that was not to be disobeyed. He turned down the gas as he headed out the door with Becky in tow.

"Okay Doctor Watson. I'll catch you later Mac, Holmes."

The two of them left the room, leaving Holmes and I staring at each other, a look of surprise on both our faces.

**Becky**

"Why the hell did you make me leave?" I asked as we walked down the hallway.

Watson smiled. "I think they need some time alone."

A wicked idea entered my mind. "You mean Holmes wants a go with her?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know something Doctor; your nineteenth century ignorance really grates on my nerves. I simply asked if your friend wants to...have intercourse with my friend."

Watson gasped at my boldness and shook his head hard enough to cause reddish hair to fall into his face. "No! No he was thinking of…" He swallowed his words.

"He was thinking of what Doctor?" I was intrigued. What could Mac's stud muffin have in mind?

"I really shouldn't say."

"Oh come on Doctor Watson! You can't intrigue me like this and then leave me hangin'. It's just not fair!"

Watson ran one of his hands through his hair. "You see Becky, Holmes is a very reticent man."

"No shit Watson," I said irritably.

"He is emotionally stolid, or so I thought."

"I'm assuming this halting confession is leading somewhere?" I was extremely curious as to Sherlock Holmes's intentions. After all, we've been in the fucking Victorian Era for over four months already! I was a little sick of all the hemming and hawing.

"Yes, I just do not know how to continue--"

"All right, would it be easier if I…" what's the word Mac always uses? Deduce! That's it! "Would it be easier if I deduced it? My intelligence might not be as great as Mac's but I have a bit more insight to the human heart then she does. After all, I've known her for over ten years and she's only had about two boyfriends! Between us, she's sorta naïve."

Watson was a little shocked by my comments and told me so. "If you feel you can deduce it--"

"Mac is totally head over heels for Holmes. He knows it, I know it you know it, the whole world fucking knows it! Well since you wanna give them some time alone, Holmes can do a couple of things: a. either wants to tell her he hates her and doesn't have any feelings for her, b. tell her he likes her but doesn't like-like her, c. he can tell her he's madly in love with her or d. he can propose marriage.

'Now, given his nature, I'd say d and c are totally unlikely as is a. So my guess is b, he tells her he likes her but doesn't like-like her. Am I right?"

Watson was silent for several minutes; we walked in silence until we reached the hotel restaurant. Once we were seated and ordered, Watson decided to speak.

"What did you say option d was?"

I laughed like hell. "He proposes to her and asks her to marry him!"

Watson took a sip of the red wine that was in front of him. "What if I told you that was the answer?"

"I'd laugh hysterically, then tell you that she is only seventeen, he is in his late twenties, they are from two different eras and I'd beg you to tell me the real reason you wanted to leave them alone."

Watson looked at me over his wine glass. "That's what I said."

I felt my face fall. "Oh shit!"

**Mac**

"Well that was certainly strange," I said with a slight smile. "I've never seen Watson so anxious to leave us alone."

"Neither have I," Holmes replied, the slight tremor in his hands betrayed his outward appearance of being calm cool and collected.

"Hey Holmes, what's bothering you? You haven't been yourself since Becky and I came back from our shopping venture."

The detective was silent for several moments, his thin nervous hands clasping and unclasping in nervous agitation. "It's nothing," he said impatiently, at length. "Just something I have been mulling over."

"You need to talk?"

"No, no thank you. But since you are here," a brief look of insecurity passed through his eyes but disappeared so quickly that I couldn't be sure of it was real or if I simply imagined it. "I think we should discuss my findings." His tone of voice was once again commanding.

"Good idea," I replied, allowing my head to drop against the cushions of the sofa. "I could tell by the fire in your eyes that your research has been successful."

Holmes nodded and lit a cigarette, a small alternative to his pipe and sucked in the nicotine gratefully. "After spending a useless hour reading charts and diagrams of the opera house, I came across an old ledger."

"Strange."

"Indeed. It seems the ledger was kept by Monsieur Charles Garnier himself. He listed all the employees who worked on the construction of the Opera House as well as the money allotted for project."

"I think I see where this is going," I said with a slight, mirthless smile. "But continue, please."

"There was one worker, named Erik, no last name was provided with a question mark next to the name."

"What does the question mark mean?"

Holmes inhaled more smoke. "It seems there was an accident during construction, one of the worker's children died, and it seems like Erik simply disappeared a short time after."

The detective's words intrigued me. "Was he suspected of having any connection to the accident?"

"No one knows for sure," Holmes said grimly. "The details surrounding the death are extremely sketchy."

"I wonder why Erik vanished," I mused aloud.

"It was rumored," Holmes continued, "that he was the one who devised a way to drain the underground lake and replace it, making it possible to build the foundation of the opera house."

"Very cool."

"Indeed. The ledger also stated that Erik was a chief architect of the building project and he was one of the best stone masons Garnier had in his employ. He was the one responsible for the masks and the stone carvings around the building."

"Wow! Talented man."

"Oui. That is not all I found. There was also a diary of sorts kept by the old management."

"Really?"

"Must you continually interrupt?" He asked hotly.

"Sorry Holmes, I shan't say another word."

"Good, just listen. The diary listed all events that took place in the opera house since they took over. Other then the usual casting and financial troubles, there was a lot of talk of the ghost. It seems, shortly after the opera house opened, the opera ghost appeared and began making demands on the management.

'Since the suggestions of the ghost were good and seemed to improve the operas that were performed, the management decided to listen to his suggestions, even going as far as paying him twenty thousand francs a month. However, as soon as they hired Mademoiselle Daaé, the ghost's comments ceased to criticize the operas and focused on furthering Mademoiselle Daaé's singing career.

'One of the managers, Monsieur Poligny hypothesized that the ghost was in love with Mademoiselle Daaé. It seems that his hypothesis was confirmed when he heard the ghost's voice emanating from Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room."

It took all of my self control to hold my tongue. I wanted to desperately get up and shout 'I told you that already Holmes! Remember our train ride back from Perros?' However, I decided against opening my mouth, for fear of angering the detective.

"I am quite aware that you suggested a relationship between the opera ghost and Mademoiselle Daaé some time ago Mackenzie," Holmes said staring at me over his cigarette.

Well he did pay attention to me after all!

"However, your suggested theory was rather fanciful and I do not believe a whit of what you said. However, I have formed my own conclusions about the relationship between Mademoiselle Daaé and our elusive Erik."

"Are you willing to share that theory with me Holmes?"

Holmes weighed my question for several minutes. "Perhaps."

He was being cryptic and annoying. "You can either tell me or not. I really don't care which you choose Holmes. I've had a trying day."

"**You've** had a trying day?" He asked raising his eyebrows incredulously.

"Yes, I mean I was nearly drowned, heard what happened to y…" I blushed and swallowed my words. _Wow! That was heartless Mac. Cold and heartless. _"Hey Holmes," I tentatively rubbed the top of his hand with my thumb. "I'm sorry that was wrong of me. Can you forgive me?" I asked when I saw pain in his eyes.

"As I was saying," he said blowing some smoke into my face, causing me to cough and wheeze. "From what I gathered from the notes from Garnier's ledger and the management's diary, Erik our Phantom is quite the musician. He is a composer—"

"And he can probably sing," I muttered softly, remembering Christine telling me he gives her lessons in her dressing room.

"Indeed," the detective replied. "It appears that Erik, who is in love with Christine, has some vendetta against Raoul simply because he too loves Mademoiselle Daaé. I have a feeling Mackenzie, that tomorrow night, there will be trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I have explored the cellars once again," Holmes said ignoring my question "and I have come face to face with Erik in my wanderings."

"And you're all right?"

"Yes, he warned me not to go to the opera house tomorrow evening. He told me that if I valued my life and the life of my…" Holmes swallowed. "And your life I should stay clear."

"You're not going to let that threat stop you from seeing this thing through to the end, are you?"

Holmes smashed the cigarette he was smoking on the floor with the toe of his shoe and stared into the cheery fire. The crackling embers and bright flames reflected in his grey eyes and accentuated the shallows of his face, giving him an ominous appearance. "Ordinarily, I would not allow his threat to deter me; however I have the most foreboding feeling that by the end of the night tomorrow, there will be unnecessary bloodshed."

His words and the menacing tone the detective spoke them in chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. I sat down on the floor in front of his seat, to feel more of the warmth of the fire.

I felt his hand rest uncomfortably on my shoulder. "I cannot dissuade you from accompanying me tomorrow night, can I?"

"No Holmes, you cannot. If there is going to be danger, I want to share it with you. I want to be beside you always."

I heard him sigh softly. "I did not think I could. Mackenzie, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," I said leaning my back against his chair.

His voice was soft and I felt the hand on my shoulder tremble slightly. "Mackenzie, do you regret coming to this time, regret meeting me?"

His question startled me. "What?"

"Please, just answer it," there was a slight note of desperation in his voice.

I stared into the fire and place one of my hands atop his that rested on my shoulder. "Do I regret coming to this time and leaving behind my family? I miss them certainly, and I will admit that I miss some of the conveniences of the twenty first century but on a whole I cannot say that I regret coming here.

'To answer the second part of your question, there is no way in hell that I could ever regret meeting you. You might piss me off royally sometimes, infuriate me beyond belief, but never once have I stopped loving you and never once did I ever regret meeting you."

He seemed surprised and squeezed my shoulder. "You never regretted meeting me, even after I told you of my horrible past?"

"Not even then Monsieur Sherlock Holmes," I said honestly. The warmness of the fire and the comfortable and even cozy atmosphere combined with the day's emotional strain was enough to make me feel somewhat sleepy. I moved so I was more comfortable and rested my head on the great detective's thigh, so I could look up into his face. "Not even then."

His hand haltingly caressed my hair. "Nothing I could do, would ever make you regret our meeting?"

"Nothing in the world Holmes."

He leaned forward, his face mere inches from mine. "I could never regret meeting you either Mackenzie," his voice was soft and gentle.

The closeness of his face and the gentleness of his voice made my heart pound in my chest. He was so close that if I raised myself on my arms I could kiss him.

"Would anything make you change your mind Holmes?"

He leaned slightly closer to me, his voice a soft whisper. "Nothing at all."

"You know I love you," I murmured, trying to ignore my pounding heart.

"Yes," he whispered. He leaned closer to me our noses were almost touching. "But I do not believe I have made my position clear."

I could not help the breathy tone my voice took on. I will admit I was aroused at his closeness and it took every bit of self control not to grab him tightly and kiss those rose lips. "I…I am not sure what you mean."

"You cannot deduce it?" He whispered his breath was warming my skin, driving me very close to the edge of abandon.

"No."

"I swore to myself I would never love," he whispered. "Indeed, even when you told me of your feelings for me, they did not register in my mind. I swore they were impossible. Today, when I told you about my past and you did not shun me, I realized that I too have feelings for you."

His words were making my heart pound louder in my chest. My breathing was becoming more shallow. "Why did you not—"

"Because I was afraid Mackenzie, afraid to give my heart to someone completely. Tonight, when you and Becky left, and I returned from the opera house, I had a long talk with Watson. We discussed many things Mackenzie, and he, more then anything, made my brain tell me what my heart knew all along."

"What is that?" Our lips were nearly touching, our breaths mingled together, forming heat between us. I saw a look of unguarded emotion and, I couldn't believe it, desire in his grey eyes. I closed my eyes and brought my mouth closer to his, our lips touched slightly. "What did he make you realize?"

"He made me realize," I felt his lips move against mine as he spoke, his voice extremely soft. "He made me realize that I l—"

"Hey Mac, where are you?"

The magic moment was broken. My eyelids flew open and with a muttered curse, Holmes and I pulled away from one another. His face was flushed slightly and I was breathless.

"Hey Mac, where the hell?" She walked into the sitting room and turned up the gas. "Ah there you are! I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

I knew my face showed the anger I was feeling. "As a matter of fact--"

"We were simply discussing the case at hand," Holmes interjected smoothly. His eyes never broke contact with mine.

"Yeah we were," I replied, my voice was still breathless.

"Oh," there was a hint of disappointment in her voice.

"Becky, what the devil are you doing? Didn't I instruct you not too…?" Watson's voice was loud with anger as he entered the sitting room.

"Hey Doc," I said, not breaking eye contact with Holmes. With my peripheral vision I could see him standing in the doorway.

"Good evening Mackenzie, Holmes."

"Watson, your timing is impeccable as ever," Holmes said sarcastically. Holmes smiled slightly at me and then looked at his oldest and dearest friend, who colored at the barb.

"I'm sorry old man, it's just that Becky came barging in…"

Sherlock Holmes forced a laugh. "It is quite all right old fellow. Come in and sit down."

I stood and made a show of stroking the fire, trying to quash my feeling of anger at the interruption. I mean for God's sake Sherlock Holmes almost kissed me!

"Mac, you seem a little tense," Becky said sitting down next to Holmes.

"A very astute observation Beck," I said between clenched teeth. _You just interrupted the most romantic moment of my entire life, thank you very much. _ I forced a smile and turned to face my companions. "Well, now that we're all here, I suggest we discuss our game plan for tomorrow."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Becky said propping her feet up on the sofa and gently leaning against Holmes, who instantly vacated his seat and began to pace in front of the hearth.

"This entire affair, I feel, is going to come to a head tomorrow night," the detective said switching into lecture mode. Gone was the romantic albeit shy Sherlock Holmes of a few moments ago, replaced by, to quote Watson, 'Holmes the sleuth-hound.' "Tomorrow night we are going to attend the masked ball at the Paris Opera House in the company of Raoul de Chagny."

"Oh rapture," Becky said sarcastically. "I love spending time in that boy's company."

Sherlock Holmes ignored Becky's comment and continued to speak. "Tomorrow morning, I am going to the Opera House, unaccompanied by anyone, to tie up a few loose ends with the management and the respective people involved. I shall most probably be gone all day but will return here by six o'clock tomorrow evening to ready myself for the ball.

'I do not care what the rest of you do all day, I only order you to be ready to leave this hotel by eight o'clock tomorrow evening. In the short hansom ride to the opera, I will give you further instructions. I must warn you that we will be playing a very dangerous game tomorrow night; we will be walking on a double edged sword and could be destroyed in the process of saving a life. If anyone feels they do not want to join me, pray speak up now."

"I'm in Holmes," I said with a smile of determination.

"As am I," Watson replied.

Becky stole a glance at me and then timidly said, "What the hell, so am I."

Holmes nodded. "Now," he consulted his 'new' pocket watch, "It is nine o'clock, I suggest we all get some rest. It will be a very trying day and night tomorrow."

"Good night Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson," Becky said, grabbing me by the wrist. "Mac, I gotta talk to you!"

I looked at the two men in the sitting room. "G'night boys," I said. My eyes lingered on Holmes's face a little longer then was necessary before I allowed my best friend to drag me from the sitting room.

**Watson**

Once Mackenzie and Becky exited the room, I turned to my dearest friend, fairly bursting with anticipation. "Did you ask her?"

My friend shook his head. "I didn't have the nerve old fellow," he admitted. "I was close to telling her how I feel, when you and Becky entered."

"Old man I am so sorry, I tried to stop her but…"

Holmes raised his hand to silence me. "It's all right Watson. Perhaps it is better," he looked down and twisted the small ring he worn on his pinky. "I almost kissed her you know Watson."

I was taken aback by his words! The self-contained misogynist Sherlock Holmes came close to kissing a woman. "Honestly? How close did you come Holmes?" I blushed slightly when I realized I was acting like when I was a boy in boarding school learning the lewd secrets of one of my schoolmates.

He chuckled and self-consciously ran one of his hands through his thick raven colored hair. "Our lips touched," he said softly.

I felt a broad smile play along my lips. These were hidden fires! "Well old man," I said clasping him on the shoulder. "You can always ask her at the ball tomorrow night."

"Yes, I suppose you are right. Watson," when he looked into my face, I realized how innocent he really was.

"Yes Holmes?"

"Do you think it is a good idea to ask her?"

"Do you love her Holmes?"

Hesitatingly he nodded. "Yes, I truly believe I do."

"Then you've got nothing to loose old man. I highly doubt she will say no," I said with a smile.

"Yes but she misses her family Watson, she told me so," my friend said sadly. "What am I to do Watson? Can I honestly ask her to be my wife, consciously knowing that I am keeping her from her family and friends?"

"Love my dear Holmes, can conquer all obstacles, no matter how great they may seem. Just have faith my dear fellow, all will be well, you'll see."

Holmes chuckled mirthlessly. "My dear Watson, you and your bloody optimism! What the deuce am I going to do with you?"

"I believe I asked Mackenzie that same question before."

"What was her answer?"

"She said I would have to put up with her, so I am assuming the same answer goes to you old man."

He shook his head and I unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a yawn.

"For God's sake Watson, get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow."

I smiled at my friend. "Good night Holmes," I said as I retired to my own bedroom.

**Mac**

"Hey Mac?"

"Hmmm?" I asked, attempting to get a comfortable position on my bed.

"Why, when I walked in, did you look at me with anger in your eyes?"

I reached up above my head and turned down the gas, making our room completely dark. "No reason Beck," I said with a yawn.

"Yeah don't give me that bullshit," Becky said with a laugh. "In all honesty, why did you glare at me like that?"

"I'm not going to tell you because you will start laughing hysterically."

"No, I swear to God I won't."

"You interrupted an intimate moment," I said feeling my face catch fire.

"How intimate?"

"I honestly think he was going to tell me he reciprocated my feelings. Our lips were touching and I'm not sure which one of us was going to make the move, but then you friggin walked in!"

"Oh man Mac, I am so sorry!" Becky said with actual remorse in her voice.

"Yeah well, what can you do? Never in my entire life did I ever feel that way before."

"What way?"

"I honestly think that if he asked me to stay with forever, I would have without a second thought."

Becky did not speak for a long time after my comment and I thought that she had fallen asleep. As I closed my eyes, the image of Holmes's face fresh in my mind, she spoke.

"And now?"

I groaned. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. "Now what?"

"Now, if he asked you to marry him, if he asked you to become his wife and stay with him forever, what would you do?"

"Becky, must we talk about this now?"

"Yes!" she said her voice louder then she intended it to be.

I sighed and rolled onto my back, putting my arms underneath my head. "I don't know Beck, I honestly don't know."

"Yes you do," she said forcefully. "Just tell me!"

"Fine, I'll be honest with you. If Holmes asked me to marry him I would say yes. If he asked me to stay with him forever I would say yes. Are you happy now?"

Once again Becky was silent. "What about your family?"

"They love me deeply and I them, that much I know. I also know that they would support me in whatever I chose to do. Beck, my heart is here with Holmes, he has taken both it and my soul. Do you honestly think I could leave him if he asked me to stay?"

"What if I forced you to go back home?"

"I'd probably hate you forever," I answered honestly. "I would never speak to you again. This conversation is officially over and we are not going to speak about this again. Goodnight Becky."

"Goodnight Mac."

I closed my eyes, and succumbed to sleep, with Holmes's words and facial expressions playing over and over in my mind.

I was awakened by bright sunlight streaming in through the windows of our hotel bedroom, shining directly in my face. I blinked at the brightness and lazily stretched. I hadn't slept that well since I arrived in the Victorian Era.

I rolled over, shielding my eyes from the sun and looked at the small tableside clock beside the bed. Much to my surprise the hour was twelve o'clock noon! I glanced at the other bed and saw Becky was still asleep.

Athletically, I leapt from my bed and trotted into the sitting room to find Watson buried behind a newspaper.

"Good morning Doc," I said with a yawn.

"Good afternoon," he said with a smile. He dropped the newspaper at his feet on the floor and looked up at me. "I take it you slept well?"

"Like a baby Doc."

"I'm glad," he said with a laugh. "You look much healthier then you have in weeks."

"After what happened last night, I'm not surprised."

"So I heard," Watson said, motioning for me to sit next to him on the sofa.

I sat next to him and leaned against the cushions, with a contented smile playing at my lips. "Watson, you have no idea! I was in heaven!"

He rumpled my hair affectionately. "Yes, I know. Holmes too, was in a state of shock at his own daring."

I laughed and tossed my head back. "What the hell did you say to him?"

"What are you talking about?"

"He said when he got back from the opera house, you and he had a long talk and he realized his feelings. What the hell did you tell him?"

Watson once again messed my hair. "I simply explained certain things to him Mackenzie. I made your job much easier; I made him realize how much he loves you."

I threw my arms around Watson's neck. "Doc, I don't know how to thank you. I owe you so much."

"Your friendship is thanks enough Mackenzie. That pen you bought me was certainly too much."

I smiled at the good doctor and sat next to him for several minutes, just enjoying his company. "I take it Holmes is already at the opera house?"

Watson nodded. "Yes, he left around five o'clock this morning."

"You honestly think he has it solved already?"

"If he says he does, I cannot doubt him."

An involuntary shudder of fear ran down my spine. Watson noticed it and raised his eyebrows.

"What is the matter Mackenzie?"

"Nothing, nothing, it's just…never mind."

"No, tell me what is troubling you."

I sighed and looked at the hideous fabric that covered the sofa. "I was simply wondering what is going to happen to Becky and me after Holmes finishes the case. I mean you guys are going back to London all happy, you to your wife and Holmes, to whatever he is going back to. But Becky and I are left here, alone. I don't mean to sound selfish or ungrateful, indeed, you two have done so much for me and Becky. But I'm nervous just the same."

Watson once again hugged me in a fatherly embrace. "You've nothing to worry about," he whispered. "Baker Street has a spare bedroom and my home certainly has enough room for two young ladies. So do not concern yourself with trifles."

"Thanks Doctor Watson," I said with a genuine smile. "You're the greatest."

"You twenty first century Americans certainly have an interesting way of speaking!"

I laughed and pushed away from Watson. "Hey Doc, after I get dressed, can you recommend some place where I can get something good, yet cheap to eat? I didn't have dinner last night and I'm starving."

Watson chortled. "The hotel restaurant is extremely good and their prices are reasonable."

"Thanks Doc," I said reentering my bedroom. Quietly I slipped into a dress and then made my way to the hotel bistro.

There, I ordered a cup of hot tea and a croissant with butter. After eating my fill, I contemplated whether or not to surprise Holmes and show up at the opera house. After several minutes of contemplation I decided it would be a bad idea. I returned upstairs where I relaxed until about five thirty.

"I'd better get ready before Holmes comes in," I said glancing at the clock next to the bed. Becky and I had been playing a video game on my cell phone for several hours.

"Yeah, that's a good idea Mac," Becky replied, snatching the phone from my hands. "It's my turn anyway."

I laughed. "I've died three times, once from a bullet wound to the chest."

"After the amount of near death experiences you've had, a gunshot wound is nothing."

"You're a sick S.O.B. you do realize that right?"

"Yeah, die you fuckers, die!" Becky said, already absorbed in the game.

I shook my head, picked up my court jester's outfit and grease paint and headed into the bathroom.

"Yo Mac, you almost done in there? It's seven o'clock and I've gotta get ready!"

"Yeah, yeah Beck, just hang on. I have to put the finishing touches, there!" I said with a grin of satisfaction as I peered at my face in the mirror. I had successfully drawn a checkered mask on my face, with such detail that it almost looked like a real mask, not one drawn on skin. I picked up my jester's hand, put it atop my head, flung open the bathroom door and did a cartwheel as I made my exit.

"Your fool is done fooling around in there m'lady," I said to Becky with a deep bow.

"No, I'm not going to start punning again. You're flipped, you know that right?"

"Flipped?" I bowed once again and did a back flip. "Like that?"

"Idiot," she said heading into the bathroom.

"You call me m'lady?"

"Get out of here fool and give me some peace!"

"Certainly m'lady!" I did a cartwheel into the sitting room and was greeted by Holmes dressed as all in black with a preposterous white collar and a square hat upon his head.

"Who in the Lord's name are you suppose to be?"

Holmes nodded gravely. "Je m'appelle Judge Claude Frollo."

"Judge," I said. I swept my hat from my head and bowed deeply. "I am a humble fool at your service."

"You are coming to the festival of fools at Garnier's Opera House this evening?"

"Yes m'lord."

"Who is accompanying you fool?"

"No one m'lord. I am going alone."

"May I have the honor of escorting you?"

"Certainly Judge Frollo." As I bowed, the cameo Holmes had given me so many nights ago popped out from underneath my multi-colored tunic.

"Young fool, you are wearing that chain?"

"Yes m'lord. I am never going to remove it as long as I live."

"It suits you I think."

"I agree most humbly m'lord." It was then that I walked up to Holmes and place one hand on either of his slender shoulders. "Shall we finish what we started last night m'lord?"

It took him a moment to realize what I was talking about but when he did, he blushed something terrible. "This is not the time or the place," he murmured.

"Is there any proper time or place m'lord?"

"The masked ball is as good a place as any I would think."

I removed my hands from his shoulders and bowed deeply. "As you wish."

He seemed to relax somewhat and sat in one of the worn yet overstuff chairs in the room. "We have a great deal to do tonight Mackenzie," he said steepling his fingers and staring at me over the tips. "This morning I spoke with young Meg Giry, a member of the corps de ballet and Mademoiselle Daaé's closest friend."

"Did she tell you anything interesting?"

"She told me that after the chandelier fell, Christine hurried off with young de Chagny. Where they went and what they did she has no idea. Giry did tell me that Christine and Raoul are engaged to be married shortly after the masked ball, where Christine will publicly announce her engagement and sing a farewell aria from the opera 'Faust.' Meg believes the engagement took place the night of the chandelier's fall.

'It is my belief, that if Erik is going to do anything, it will be after Christine Daaé sings. From what I can gather, he is extremely fond of her voice."

"So we should be on our guard then, after the announcement of the engagement?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "Oh Mackenzie, speaking of engagements--"

"What about them?"

"How would you feel about being engaged?"

Holmes's question startled me. "If it was to the right man, I would be the happiest woman in the world."

Holmes nodded absent-mindedly. "Yes, well would you ever consider the 'right man'…?" Holmes could not finish his thought because he was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Damn!" He muttered, rising from the chair to answer it.

"Good evening Monsieur Holmes," it was Raoul de Chagny.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," the detective said stiffly. "You have come at a most inopportune time, however I will forgive you."

"I did to mean to interrupt you Monsieur," the fop said. "But I was anxious to arrive here. My darling Christine and I are to be married!"

"Do come in," Holmes said motioning for the viscount to enter. Raoul kissed my hand in a sickening fashion and flopped down on the sofa.

"Can you believe it, my Christine and I are going to be married!"

"So I have heard Monsieur le Vicomte," Holmes said cordially.

"You brother approves of the match?" I couldn't help but break Raoul's bubble of elation. I will admit that I was extremely jealous of the fop at that moment. He was engaged to the girl he loved, and yet I could not even get the man of my affections to kiss me. It did not seem fair!

The fop's face fell at the mention of the Comte de Chagny. "I do not care a damn about what he says! I love Christine, and that is all that matters."

"You have my congratulations," Holmes interjected.

"As well as mine Monsieur," I said, swallowing my rising gorge. The sight of Raoul happy was nauseating.

"If you are so happy why did you come here? And why are you still in need of my services?" Holmes asked.

"Christine is a bit of a harlot Monsieur Holmes."

"Sir, that is no way to speak of the woman you love!" I said instantly coming to Christine's defense.

The viscount shrugged indifferently. "Alas, but it is true. She swears she loves me, and yet for the longest time, she wore the ring of her 'Angel of Music.' Tonight, Monsieur Holmes, I want you to ensure that nothing happens to either Christine or myself. I have taken my own precautions," as he spoke he pulled up his perriot costume shirt and revealed a small revolver in a holster. "However, I would feel much more comfortable if you were present."

"I will do my best sir," Holmes said softly.

"Merci," Raoul said, checking his pocket watch. "It is seven thirty Monsieur Holmes. I would like to leave as soon as possible."

"Of course," Holmes said. He motioned for me to check on Beck.

"Hey Becky," I said as I entered our bedroom, "you ready yet? The king of fops wants to leave!"

"You're calling Holmes a fop?" Becky asked smoothing the princess dress that she wore.

"No, Raoul is here and he wants to leave pronto."

"Ah, gotcha. But you shouldn't call him a fop, Mac, he's cute!"

I groaned and led Becky out of the sitting room where we found Watson, dressed in a white domino costume leaning against the mantle.

"Good, she is ready. Come along then," Holmes said taking my arm in his as we exited the hotel for what could have been the last time of our lives. If I, even for one second, imagined the danger that we would be in, I would have done my best to convince Holmes not to attend the ball.


	49. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty Eight: The Masked Ball**

"We all must be on our guard," Holmes said once we were bouncing along in a four wheeler. "Should anything unfortunate occur, Watson and I will make the first move. Mackenzie, I want you and Becky to remain out of the danger as long as possible, do I make myself clear?"

I cocked a skeptical eyebrow at Holmes. "And let you have all the fun? Are you kidding me?"

"Mackenzie, this is not some game," the detective said with some asperity. "If anything is to happen tonight there is a very real possibility of lives being lost. I do not want you, or your friend," he added hastily, "in danger. You are to stay away, that is an order."

"Hey Holmes, what if something happens to you? You think I could live with myself knowing I did nothing to possibly save you?"

"If I assure you that I will be fine, will you obey my instructions?"

I shook my head and leaned close to his ear so only he could hear me. "You're too important to me for me to take your word. I want to be by your side in both times of peace and times of danger, I thought I made that perfectly clear."

Holmes opened his mouth to argue back when the cab driver announced that we arrived at our destination.

Holmes rose and opened the door to allow us to alight from the cab. With a grin on my face I back flipped out of it and nearly landed on Holmes. He shook his head and linked his arm with me and together we entered the Paris Opera House.

I was momentarily speechless as we entered the Grand Foyer. Various sights and sounds assaulted my senses; color was every where, from the darkest black to the brightest white and all colors in between. Music filled the building and the dance floor seemed alive as various bodies moved together gracefully in various waltzes. Champagne was running freely and glasses were pressed into our hands before we completely entered the building.

"Good Lord, I've never seen such a sight," I murmured.

"It is certainly impressive," Holmes replied, his eyes scanning thousands of faces in the crowd.

A young, almost completely naked woman, dressed as a nymph drunkenly approached Holmes. "Bon soir Monsieur. Would you care to dance?"

Holmes shook his head and we pushed past the woman without a word to her. I do not doubt that she instantly forgot about Holmes and went in search of another male companion.

"Well some people are forward," I said with a laugh.

"Here," Holmes said handing me his filled champagne glass, "I need to check the time." With his now free hand he reached into the pocket of his priest's garb and removed his pocket watch. "It is only eight o'clock. We have several hours until Mademoiselle Daaé's song and her engagement announcement."

I handed him back his glass. "What do you propose to do until then?"

"Enjoy ourselves as much as we can," he replied. He nervously looked around and smiled when he saw Watson and Becky approach us. "You will excuse me for a moment Mackenzie?"

"Sure Holmes," I replied with a smile.

"Watson, I must speak with you," he said leaving my side and finding his friend.

"Your date seems to be pretty nervous about something," Becky said, joining me beside the grand staircase. She had a stupid grin on her face, the reason for it I had no idea.

"He's probably just tense about Christine's announcement. After all we know Erik is a vengeful man and will do anything to keep Christine with him."

"Good theory Mac," Becky said with a smile. "But somehow I think you're wrong."

"Huh? What else could possibly make Holmes tense? Pray enlighten me."

Becky grinned slyly. "That is his job, not mine. But I can say that it involves you. And although the end result will hurt me, I will attempt to be happy for ya."

Her words intrigued me, but I gave them no weight. My best friend had a tendency to read into things, or blatantly twist facts to make them have a romantic spin. "You are making no sense whatsoever. Did you drink that glass of champagne already mon amie? Did it go to your head?"

She laughed and punched me lightly on the arm. "You'll see what I mean soon enough. Ah, your prince charming is making his way over here. Au revoir Mac," Becky said disappearing from my side.

I shook me head and took a sip of the amber liquid in my glass. "She is insane," I whispered to myself. "Hey Holmes," I said when he reached me.

"Mackenzie," he said with a curt nod of his head. His eyes were bright with anticipation and his hands, which are usually rock steady, shook almost imperceptibly. He bowed slightly. "Would you care to dance?"

I was totally shocked by his request and I felt a blush rising to my cheeks. I shook my head wordlessly.

He seemed hurt. "I did not mean to offend--"

"No," I whispered, almost afraid to admit to something I could not do. "It's not you. It's just…well I can't dance."

It took a moment for my words to register but when they did he began to laugh, loud honest guffaws.

"Well you don't have to make fun of me!" I spat angrily. "It's not my fault! I was always more into sports then dancing."

He shook his head and smiled. "No, I did not mean to laugh at you," he said, attempting to catch his breath, "but I did not expect that. Come," he took my hand in his. "I will teach you."

"All right," I said with more confidence then I felt. I hated to make a spectacle of myself and knew that was going to happen. However, I nervously allowed him to lead me onto the dance floor.

**Holmes**

My nerves were all on edge as I led Mackenzie onto the dance floor. I had taken Watson's advice, although why I will never know.

'Holmes, dance with her, establish a romantic mood,' he said to me as I drank a glass of champagne to fortify myself. 'While you are dancing, whisper in her ear and say that you need to speak with her. Then take her aside and simply ask.'

Take her aside and simply ask. That is much easier said then done. I do not know how to speak romantically; indeed I do not even know what I am to say. Do I simply ask her as if I was asking a question to one of my clients? 'Mackenzie, would you consider becoming my wife?' No, that seems to cold, but then again that is my nature! Logic without emotion that is what has kept me strong all these years.

Why the devil did I allow her to enter my heart? Why did Watson force me to admit to my feelings? I was surviving and suddenly…

"Holmes, are you all right?"

Mackenzie's voice cut into my thoughts. "Yes why?" I was chagrined to hear my sharp reply.

"Well, we've been standing here for a few minutes--"

"Yes, right. Well," I took a deep steadying breath. "Put your left hand in my right." I was praying I remembered something from the lessons Mycroft forced me to take as a youth. I felt her hand slip into mine and her other resting comfortably on my shoulder. Although a good foot shorter then I, her eyes gazed into mine. I felt my heart beat quickly as I returned her stare. _Sherlock when dancing you must put your hand around the woman's waist. _Mycroft's voice entered my mind, reminding me what I had to do. Timidly, I put my hand around her middle. "Now, attempt to follow me. One," I stepped forwards, my heart pounding like a drum in my ears. "Two," _step left_. "Three," _step to the right_. "Four," _step backwards_._ Very good Sherlock. Now again. _ "Do you understand what you must do?"

She nodded and held me closer. I continued to count the beat, quickening my voice as the music increased in tempo. Thankfully, she was a fast learner and eventually I was able to cease counting all together and just enjoy the strangely comforting feeling of her weight in my arms.

**Becky**

Watson and I (well I) watched in amusement as Mac and Holmes robotically moved (danced) around the floor. Mac, from time to time, broke eye contact with her prince charming and watched her feet, making her that she was following his lead perfectly. Holmes on the other hand, sometimes stared over Mac's head and watched the people around them, looking for God knows what.

"Becky, why are you laughing?" Watson asked as I unsuccessfully attempted to turn a laugh into a cough.

I grinned. "Well Doc Watson, look at them! Your friend wants to propose to my friend, but they both look too nervous to even be romantically involved! Look at Mac! I swear she is saying 'oh now I have to look at my feet because he's too sexy to stare at!'"

Watson even laughed at my observation. "Yes, I suppose you are right. I do not believe I have ever seen Holmes more nervous then he appears at the moment."

I chuckled and an idea grabbed me. "Watson, you wanna dance?"

"Excuse me?"

"Look, aren't you curious as to what Holmes is going to say to Mac? Let's go on the dance floor and get close enough to them so we can hear what they are saying."

"But that would not be proper," Watson protested feebly.

"Fuck propriety! This could be really entertaining!"

Watson looked from me to the dancing couple and back again. Then with a wicked smile, he offered me his arm, which I took and we started dancing and eavesdropping.

I could see Holmes lean closer to Mac and I almost pulled Watson so we were closer. When we could finally hear some of what they were saying we slowed down our dance steps.

"Mackenzie," it was the detective.

"Yeah Holmes?"

_Come on Holmesy, pop the question already!_

He hesitated for a few seconds and stared into space. "Did you see Mademoiselle Daaé anywhere?"

_What the hell are you stupid or something! Jesus Christ, you want to ask the girl to marry you! Don't start asking about another woman! _

Mac shook her head in the negative. "No, why?"

"I was just curious," he replied. "Are you curious as to what she is going to say when she announces her engagement?"

_Are you beating around the bush and trying to ask her to marry you? You are fucked up man; you do realize that I hope. Just get down on your knees, tell her how much you love her and slip the ring on her finger. It is NOT rocket science. _

Mac shrugged. "She'll probably say how much she loves Raoul, which will infuriate Erik beyond belief."

_Oh hell Mac, you're no better! Yes, why don't you discuss another guy's emotions! Christ!_

I turned to Watson. "You know Doc Watson, I am half tempted to go over there and propose to Mac for Holmes. They are certainly not the most romantic people in the world."

Watson laughed softly. "I must agree with you Becky."

"Let's watch and listen, maybe this will get more interesting."

**Mac**

Sherlock Holmes seemed distracted. I could tell that something other then the case was on his mind.

"All right Holmes," I said, "tell me what is on your mind. Don't you dare tell me Christine Daaé and Erik because I know for fact that they are far from your thoughts."

The detective closed his eyes for a moment and then leaned close to me, putting his lips to my ear. "I need to speak to you in private. There is something I must ask you."

I was a little unnerved by his uncertainty. "Sure Holmes," I tried to ignore the signals his whispering was sending to the remainder of my body. "Ask away."

"Not now or rather not here by everyone. I observe Becky and Watson lingering close by us."

I looked over Holmes's shoulder and laughed when I saw Becky attempting to catch the words Holmes was saying. I stuck my tongue out at her in a juvenile fashion and noticed, with some amusement that she blushed when she realized she was caught.

"Where can we go to talk?"

Holmes scanned the foyer for a second and then smiled slightly. "Come with me," he said removing his hand from my waist.

I followed him off the dance floor and up the grand stair case until we entered the nearly empty auditorium. He continued walking until reached a deserted opera box. There, he pushed back the curtain and motioned for me to enter.

I sat on one of the plush seats and stared down at the empty stage below while Holmes nervously paced the small space we were occupying. Finally, when he turned to me, his face was an unreadable mask.

"Mackenzie," his voice was soft and gentle. "I…I know I have put you through a great deal these past few months," he swallowed and seemed unsure of how to continue.

"Hey, it's all right. I've put you through hell too."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "No, that is not what I am attempting to say. You have been a puzzle to me Mackenzie, a strange enigmatic personality. I-I have grown extremely fond of you, over the time we've known each other."

"That's so sweet Holmes," I said with a smile.

"Please do not interrupt me!" He barked. "No, I didn't mean that. I just have something to say, rather ask."

"Holmes, please, this attempt at flattery does not suit you. You usually cut right to the chase. So do that now. Just come right out and say whatever is on your mind. You have my full attention."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Mackenzie, what I have been attempting to ask you on numerous occasions, is would you ever consider becoming my--"

"Monsieur Holmes, there you are!" Raoul de Chagny entered the box, interrupting Holmes's speech. "I was searching everywhere for you."

"Damn you de Chagny!" Holmes said angrily. "Can you not see I am busy?"

"I am sorry, but Christine is almost ready to make her speech," the viscount was fairly bursting with anticipation.

With an angry sigh Holmes stared at Raoul. "So she is making your engagement public then?"

The viscount nodded. "Oui Monsieur."

"And then she is going to sing?"

"Oui."

"What is she going to sing Monsieur?"

Raoul shrugged. "I do not know much about music, Monsieur. Indeed, occasionally opera hurts my ears. But I do think she is singing the Jewel Song from Faust."

"Oh the stage?"

"Oui Monsieur."

Suddenly Holmes's face hardened and his eyes grew cold. "Damn! I am a blundering fool! Come along Mackenzie, or we will be too late to prevent a tragedy!"

"Holmes what are you talking about?"

"The chandelier! Mon Dieu! Trapdoors Mackenzie! The chandelier, he was able to use trapdoors and passage ways to arrange for it to fall at precisely the moment he needed it to! Box Five! The hollow column! How the devil was I so blind?"

"Holmes!" I attempted to speak to him but he was beyond hearing.

"Mackenzie, you must listen to me," he said grasping my shoulders tightly. There was intensity in his eyes like I have never before seen. "Go downstairs and find Watson. Instruct him to go with you backstage."

"Wait, where will you be?"

"In Box Five. Now listen to me. Should anything unfortunate occur--"

"I'm staying with you. The fop can find Watson!"

Holmes shook his head. "This is no time to argue! Should something unfortunate occur, anything out of the ordinary, I want you and Watson to go down to the fifth cellar. You will cross the lake and you will be at Erik's lair. You do remember how to get there, correct?"

I nodded. "Yes but--"

"You must take extreme caution. Erik will know we are on the move. I did not tell you this before, but Buquet was not murdered with a normal piece of rope. The rope that Erik had you hanging from and the one the murdered Buquet is the same. There is elasticity in it, and with the flick of the wrist, it can be used as a whip.

'When you reach the fifth cellar, I implore you to keep your hand at the level of your eyes. You must be extremely silent and you must ignore any siren voices you hear. Remember what happened the last time we heard one."

The memory of being dumped into frigid water and nearly drowned was all too fresh in my mind. "I remember. What should I do when we reach Erik's home?"

"Await my instructions."

"What about you Holmes? What will you do?"

"Do not worry about me Mackenzie." Holmes held me for a moment longer and then, much to my surprise kissed me quickly atop the head. "Now go and make haste. Lives are on the line."

"Be careful," I said. I broke away from Holmes and pushed past Raoul de Chagny. I took off down the hall at breakneck speed, my heart pounding and Holmes's cryptic words echoing in my ears.

When I reached the Grand Foyer, panting and wheezing, I was chagrined to see the crowd had grown thicker. Many people, wearing multicolored costumes were making their way into the auditorium, anxious, no doubt to hear Christine Daaé sing. My heart pounded wildly when I realized that there were several men dressed as white dominos, wearing the hooded cloaks, matched Watson's physical appearance.

_Fuck! _"Watson!" I called his name at the top of my voice, only to have it drowned out by the cacophony of laughter. "Watson!"

I pushed through a throng of men, stopping at almost everyone in a white hooded cloak. After about ten minutes of searching, I began to get disheartened. I was never going to be able to find Watson before Christine was due on stage.

_Mackenzie, you must make haste!_ "Holmes I'm trying," I muttered to the voice in my mind. "Watson where the hell are you?"

"Mackenzie?"

I whirled around to find myself face to face with Watson, his mask pulled back revealing the green eyes and red hair that I was so familiar with. "Thank God! I have instructions from Holmes. You must follow me!"

"Mac where the hell are we going?" Becky asked as I pulled Watson through the crowd and back into the auditorium.

"No time for explanations Beck," I said, keeping a fast pace. When we reached the stage, I immediately turned left and reached the backstage wings, just as Christine was about to step on the boards. "Thank God," I panted, attempting to slow my breathing. "We made it."

I looked up at Box Five, and saw a dark shadow lurking there. Whether the shadow was real or whether it was my imagination, I cannot be certain.

"Mackenzie, what are your instructions?" Watson asked, placing a claming hand on my shoulder.

"We are to watch Christine from back here," I wheezed. "If anything unusual occurs, we must make it to the fifth cellar as quickly as possible, always remembering to keep our hand at the level of our eyes and wait for Holmes to give us further instructions."

"Why do we have to do this?" Becky asked.

"Just shut up! This is important."

The lights suddenly dimmed and Christine Daaé strode on stage, dressed in a hunter green dress with a low neckline. Thunderous applause greeted her as she walked center stage.

"Hello ladies and gentlemen," the soprano said loudly. "I hope you are enjoying yourselves this evening."

Another round of thunderous applause was heard. Once the clapping subsided, Christine continued to speak. "It is with the permission of the management that I am standing here this evening. It is my duty to announce that I am engaged to be married to my closest friend Monsieur Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny."

At the announcement, the house exploded in celebration. The applause was thunderous and was painful to my ears. When Raoul de Chagny strode onstage, the applause quieted.

"Merci!" he said smiling his boyish smile. "I am glad to hear that you approve of my engagement! However, I regret to inform you that I am stealing your beloved diva from the Paris stage."

A din of whispers was heard and many fingers were pointing at the couple.

"It is true, I am leaving the opera and moving to England with Raoul," Christine said softly. "However, I am going to sing a farewell song. I know I am supposed to sing the Jewel Song from Faust, but instead I am going to sing another song from the same opera. It is a duet and our male tenor Monsieur Piangi is going to sing with me. With your permission, I would like to sing for you now."

A hush came over the crowd.

"Maestro, the music please," Christine said to the conductor.

The orchestra began to play the first bars to Gounod's song. Christine stood center stage, her eyes closed, preparing to sing.

"It is done late farewell!" She said softly.

Suddenly, the most glorious voice I have ever heard sang the response. "Wait! I implore you in vain! Await! Leave your hand to forget itself in mine. Let me contemplate your face under the pale clarity of the stars of night, as it strokes your beauty."

Christine's face grew pale and Raoul de Chagny stepped backward, his eyes wildly scanning the auditorium, searching for the source of the voice. Hurriedly he ran off stage in attempt to either find Holmes or find the voice. Suddenly, a tall cloaked figure walked onto the stage from the right wing. He approached Christine, who stepped backwards.

She continued to sing, ignoring the fear that was in her eyes. "O silence, o happiness! I listen and I understand this solitary voice who sings in my heart! Leave a little of grace!"

The cloaked figure moved closer to Christine and took her in his arms. "What therefore?"

Christine's face paled when she heard the man's voice so close to her ear. "A simple game, leave a little, leave a little."

"What says your mouth to a low voice?" The cloaked figure spoke softly and I was forced to stifle a gasp! The voice I heard was the voice of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera!

Becky saw me tense and put her hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?" She asked.

I shook my head, my eyes transfixed on the scene before me.

Christine was trembling in fear, but her voice was strong. "You love me, you do not love me. You love me, you do not love me! You love me!"

Erik grasped Christine's hand and held it in his own. His voice was glorious, each note was sung with extreme emotion. "Yes, believe in me. What I say is in your heart, the oracle of the very sky. I love you! Do you understand this word sublimates and soft? Love! We carry it in a new fervor. It intoxicates us with endless eternal joy!"

Christine's and Erik's voices blended together suddenly, each rising to new heights, showing the extreme talent of both. It is no wonder that Christine thought that Erik was an angel. "Eternal! O harms love! The soft radiant sky soft with flames echoes our silent happiness. Towards the sky our souls do fly as one!"

Christine pulled herself into Erik's embrace, loosing herself completely in the song. "I want to love you and to cherish you! I want to belong to you to love you always. I would die for you. Speak again of love and I will die."

Erik held Christine tightly; his voice was raw with emotion, forcing the song to new heights of brilliance. "Divine purity, chaste innocence you hold power over me and my will. A word again, repeat this soft confession! You love me?"

Suddenly Christine's voice was full of fear. "Leave! Farewell!" She struggled to extricate herself from his embrace, but he held fast.

"Do you love me Christine? Say you love me; say you love your angel." Erik's voice was fierce. "Whom do you love more Christine, me or your precious vicomte?"

"Erik!"

"Answer me Christine! No, better yet, come with me!" In a flash, Erik and Christine vanished from view.

"Shit! What happened?" Becky asked.

"Come on! We must get down to the fifth cellar!" I grabbed Watson's arm and pulled him backward toward the cellar entrance. "Hand at the level of your eyes!"

"We have no light!" The doctor observed.

"We obviously don't have time to look for one. Trust me, I know the way!" I hurried through the door quickly, not even double checking to see if either of my companions was following me.

From above, I heard the pandemonium from on the stage. Someone had murdered Piangi, people were shouting.

_Well let's play Sherlock Holmes for a minute and think. Gee, I know! Erik killed him!_ I sighed and continued moving swiftly down to the third cellar where it was beginning to grow extremely dark.

"Mac, where are you?"

"Shut up Becky!" I whispered harshly. "We need to be quiet!"

"Sorry," she whispered back.

I felt cold hands on my shoulders and I jumped involuntarily. "Which one of you is?" I whispered.

"Both of us you idiot," replied Becky.

"Cool," I whispered. "Now, it's gonna get ridiculously dark down here, so I suggest Beck that you hold onto me."

"Roar!"

"Now is not the time of place for childishness," I retorted angrily. Without waiting for a reply, I began to slowly and painfully make my way down the staircase that would lead to the fourth cellar.

As we carefully descended into the depths, my heart was pounding hard against my ribcage. It was taking much too long to get down there. Holmes was probably waiting for us, somewhere in the darkness beyond the underground lake.

_Or he could already be in the clutches of Erik!_ That thought made me quicken my pace. During the seemingly endless trek through the labyrinthine cellars of the opera house, I wondered several times what it was Holmes wanted to ask me.

_If he's hurt Mac, you'll never know._ I increased my speed until I was fairly sprinting down the dark corridors. Many times large spiders' webs tangled their gossamer threads around my face and neck, but my thoughts were so focused on finding Holmes that I did not even care.

"Cuh-can't we slow down a little bit?" Becky puffed.

"No," was the only answer I would give. _If Watson, wounded leg and all can keep up with my pace so can you Becky. Deal with it!_ I dared not reveal my thoughts on her question because there was no time for a row.

I stopped my relentless pace when my ears could hear the faint sound of the underground lake lapping against its banks. I once again began to walk, but more cautiously. I had no idea if Erik had taken any pains to securing the area after my first visit.

The phosphorescent glow from the subterranean lake was a welcomed sight to someone like me who had walked for nearly a half hour in utter darkness.

"Thank God there is some light!" Becky announced with a smile.

"Would you shut up?" I put my hand over her mouth, making her words inaudible.

I looked at Watson, whose face was tense with anticipation. "What are we going to do now?" He asked softly.

As an answer, I strode over to the lake and was chagrined to find the boat was gone. "Son of a bitch!" I growled hotly as I stared at the water. "This really sucks!"

"What is the matter Mackenzie?"

"Doc, the boat that Holmes and I used to get a…" I stopped when I remembered the path we returned on. "Never mind, just follow me!"

Very carefully, I picked my way along the right side of the lake, being careful not to turn my ankle on any loose rocks that might be in the soil. Because the water was not disturbed, we were not pestered by siren voices. After what seemed like an eternity, I saw a faint light which signaled Erik's house was close by.

"Be extremely quiet," I whispered to my two companions.

Cautiously, we approached the house. A loud dissonance of organ notes filled the air, making my blood run cold. We stood in front of Erik's door, waiting for some sign from Holmes, telling us what to do.

We waited a good ten minutes, and still Holmes did not appear. Nervously, I began to pace the muddy soil in front of the lake house.

_Holmes, where are you?_ My strides grew wilder as the minutes ticked away.

"All right guys," I said, my voice was hoarse with fear. "I'm going to go in."

"What are you crazy?" Becky asked clutching my arm.

"Let go now!" I said hotly. "Something has gone wrong, although I don't know what!" With more confidence then I felt, I strode to Erik's front door. Gently, I turned the handle, and was surprised when it opened easily under my hand.

"Hello Innocent," the hypnotic yet terrifying voice of Erik greeted me as I crossed the threshold and stepped into the ornately furnished lair. "You've been expected."

I looked around and saw Christine seated with her head in her arms. Holmes was standing uncomfortably next to the sofa. Our eyes met and his face was drawn, but he smiled thinly.

"Hey Holmes," I said with a slight smile. "You okay?"

"He has not been ill-used," Erik replied, his voice almost gay. "Pray invite in the rest of your friends," his tone of voice was not one that was to be disputed.

I cautiously moved to the door and motioned for Becky and Watson to enter, which they did albeit timidly.

"Welcome, welcome to my humble abode," Erik said indicating the ornate room with a sweep of his hands. His face was covered by a black porcelain mask. He looked at Holmes keenly for several seconds. "You are the only man I have ever come across who outshines their reputation. You have showed that you have brains Monsieur Holmes; indeed, before your friends arrived you told me exactly how you found me.

'Very clever of you to have gone though the ledgers of Garnier and the diary of the previous management. I was surprised that you were able to make the connection between the opera ghost and the angel of music. It is a pity I will have to destroy you though. Obviously you knew this was a dangerous mission."

Holmes did not seem bothered. "I assumed as much. But you may let my friends go, for they are no threat to you."

"I cannot take that chance Monsieur Holmes," Erik said softly. "I am sure you understand."

"I swear to God Erik if you hurt Holmes—"

"Innocent, pray spare me the maudlin threats. I can, of course, assure you that you will die with your lover."

Before I had time to formulate an answer, a low ringing was heard. Erik's face was inscrutable underneath his mask, but his tone was light and joyful. "Ah! It appears that someone has accidentally stepped into my torture chamber."

"Your torture chamber?" I asked, not liking the note of pride that was in his voice.

"Yes, my torture chamber. Monsieur Holmes, you are a man with a scientific mind. Would you care to know how it works?"

"Do I have much of a choice Monsieur?"

"None in the world," Erik said with a musical laugh. "Monsieur Holmes, the room is six sided, the sides are covered by mirrors. When I flick this switch here, a bright light turns on and heat is emitted. A large iron tree is in the middle of the room, so when my prisoner, or in this case the young vicomte and Nadir, goes mad from the heat, they can hang themselves on the tree."

"Erik you are a monster!" Christine sobbed into her arms.

"I am only a monster if you make me such Mademoiselle. Now what will it be a wedding mass or a requiem mass? I am equally skilled at playing both."

"Erik I will not marry you!" Her voice was filled with anger and sadness. "I cannot bear to look at your face everyday of my life!"

A shout of rage escaped the lips of Erik and he threw off his mask, allowing it to smash to the floor. "You cannot bear to see this Christine?"

The soprano shrieked in horror when Erik stood before her. "Get away from me!"

"Look upon my face Christine! Look at it! You are the one who insisted on seeing it in the first place! You must look upon it if you wish to save the life of your precious vicomte."

"Erik," Holmes's tone was commanding.

The Phantom looked up, facing us and I unconsciously retreated from his hideous face. No, I cannot call it a face at all. He was horribly deformed; his skin was the color of yellow parchment. His eyes were sunken in deep misshapen sockets and glowed amber in the wavering candle light. He had no nose, but a hole in its place. His mouth was horribly misshapen and he had an underdeveloped top lip which was pulled back into a perpetual snarl. His bottom lip was virtually nonexistent and a set of rotting teeth could be seen.

If Holmes was bothered by the horrible sight before him, he gave no sign. "Erik you cannot force Mademoiselle Daaé to choose between you and Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Yes I can Monsieur Holmes and I will!" Erik's voice was filled with emotion. "Christine, the requiem mass is not at all gay, whereas the wedding mass—you can take my word for it—is magnificent! You said that you loved me Christine; you said you would never leave me and yet when your precious vicomte proposed to you, your vow to me was instantly forgotten! Prove your love to one of us Christine, become my wife and your vicomte will be freed. Should you refuse me, he will most certainly die a slow and horrible death within the walls of my torture chamber."

Christine started to cry, her body was jarred with violent sobs. A gun shot was heard from the right, where I am assuming the torture chamber was.

"He is trying to shoot his way out!" Erik said with a mirthless laugh.

"Why will you kill Raoul?" Christine asked her eyes wide with terror.

"For two reasons Christine. First you are unwilling to become my wife. The second is he attempted to kill me."

"What?" Christine's voice was shrill.

"Oh yes, when you were down here with me, your precious vicomte hired men to hunt me down and murder me. Fortunately, the few men that did find my lair were unable to escape my Punjab lasso."

Christine's eyes widened. "I did not know he was trying to kill you!"

"I believe you, my darling Christine, however I cannot spare the life of your precious Raoul."

"Then you must kill me as well Erik," Chrisitne said softly. "I am going to be Raoul's wife!"

"That is negotiable," Erik replied quietly. "You do not understand me Christine Daaé. I am not a wicked man, I am just a man who wants to be loved and accepted. Everyone I have ever met has treated me with hatred for no reason other then my face.

'The daroga or as you know him, the Persian can vouch for that fact. Daroga, the only man who has behaved civilly toward me has now endeavored to help mine enemies. I have never been shown any compassion in my life, and when I found someone whom I could love, she turned from me because of this!" He gestured wildly at his face. "Isn't that right Christine?" He turned to the sobbing diva. "You are crying. It pains me to see you cry. Love me and you shall see Christine, how gentle I can be."

"I love Raoul," the diva cried.

At that confession, Erik's voice lost all emotion. "I see. So would you do anything to save your precious viscount?"

Christine nodded. "Yes."

"Then you would consent to be my wife?"

Christine shook her head. "I told you I cannot! I am betrothed to Raoul!"

"So you are not willing to do anything to save your precious vicomte," Erik said bitterly.

"You are cruel Erik!"

Another shot was heard from the torture chamber and shouts. "Christine I will save you!"

"That is your precious fiancé Christine. Hear how his voice is cracking with the heat? You can save him if you will only say yes."

Christine remained silent, and stared at Holmes and myself helplessly. Holmes was not sympathetic.

"Erik," Holmes's voice was gentle, yet firm. "I am extremely surprised at you."

The Phantom turned his wretched face toward Holmes. "What do you mean Monsieur?"

"I mean Erik, you are a brilliant man. You helped build and were the chief mason of this building. You have written beautiful music and have taught Christine how to sing. Yet you stand here threatening her with Raoul's life. It is obvious that she cares deeply about you Erik. Release Raoul de Chagny and allow him to stand next to you. Then make her choose."

Christine stared at Holmes in horror. "You cannot be serious!"

"I am quite serious Miss. This has gone on for much too long," Holmes turned to Erik. "You claim you love her, do you not?"

"I do!"

"Then allow her to choose between you and Raoul de Chagny. Let her make the choice and live with the results."

"Holmes this is madness!" Watson said, quickly. His philanthropist nature wanted to shield and protect Christine from further hurt.

"Watson, can you not see there is no other alternative? Mademoiselle Daaé is a grown woman and must make the choice between the two men she has so grievously wronged."

Erik's eyes grew bright at the thought of making Christine choose between the two of them, without threatening the other's life. I guess he assumed that it would be fascinating to watch her mentally weigh the pros and cons of each of the men. "Very well," he said wearily.

Holmes moved so he was standing directly between Erik and the torture chamber door. "Unlock it Erik, and Watson shall open the door. Then she will decide."

Erik flicked a small switch on the wall and a lock unlatched. Watson deftly moved and opened a door to his right. Raoul de Changy and the Persian stumbled out of the room.

Gun drawn, Raoul raised his pistol with an unsteady hand and attempted to focus. His hand was too wavering; his vision blurred from extreme heat, and the gun was aimed not at Erik but at Holmes!

Foreseeing what was about to happen, I ran as hard as I could across the room. My legs felt like concrete blocks and the distance between me and the man I love seemed to change from mere yards to miles. I heard Raoul mutter something about finishing this thing once and for all. I heard the hammer of the gun click into firing position, heard my own ragged breathing and pulse exploding in my chest. I felt rather than saw Raoul's finger caress the trigger.

In attempt to save Holmes's life, I leapt forward to knock him out of the way just as a loud blast issued from somewhere behind me.

I felt extreme heat in the middle chest as though someone held a hot iron there, as I tumbled on top of Holmes. Searing pain filled my body and a coppery taste was in my mouth. I heard someone yell "oh shit!" as I hit the floor and my vision momentarily washed to black.


	50. Chapter 49

**Chapter Forty Nine: Death Cometh on Swift Wings**

**Holmes**

I saw Raoul de Chagny raise his gun and unsteadily put his finger on the trigger. I was much too slow in my observations for it was only when he started to apply pressure that I realized his sight was set on me rather then on Erik.

Before I could react, I heard the loud report from the pistol and almost simultaneously, I felt a great weight crash into me, sending me sprawling to the floor.

My head struck the ground and I fought against waves of blackness to remain conscious. I needed to know what crashed into me, possibly saving my life from the viscount's bullet. My mind slowly cleared and I painfully brought myself to a sitting position and glanced around the room. When my eyes fell upon my savior, my heart seemed to stop.

Mackenzie was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, blood covering her tiny frame. I heard a faint wheezing sound and realized it was her lungs attempting to suck in air. I saw her face, which was usually brimming with joyfulness and life, convulsed in agony.

My breathing was suddenly constricted and a feeling as cold as ice wrapped itself around my heart. My mind went numb and I sat there, simply staring at the blood covered girl for several moments. Then, something in my mind snapped and I hurried over to her in attempt to gauge the full extent of her injuries.

It seemed as though a fountain of blood was spewing forth from Mackenzie's chest, covering her with crimson. Panic began to claw at me and I instantly shouldered out of my jacket. I knew a person could not live once they lost five pints of blood and there was no telling how much she had lost already. I balled my jacket and quickly pressed it against Mackenzie's chest. Within moments, the material was soaked through.

I quickly looked around for Watson and spied him leaning over an unconscious Becky. The girl most probably fainted when she saw her best friend shot. I once again looked at Mackenzie and gently touched her forehead. Much to my chagrin, the loss of blood was already causing her skin to cool.

I turned my attention back to Watson who was successfully bringing Becky back into consciousness. "To hell with her!" I shouted, frightened to hear my own voice tremble violently. "Mackenzie has lost a great deal of blood and needs your attention immediately. I do not know how badly she is hurt."

There was only one time in my life that I felt so helpless and that was when my dear mother was murdered. But the helplessness that I felt now was one hundred times worse then what I felt as a boy.

Not knowing what else to do, I gently lifted Mackenzie and cradled her in my arms. With my voice trembling and tears threatening to spill from my eyes, I whispered her name several times. I willed her to open her eyes, for I had the strangest desire to look into her elk colored orbs and see reassurance in her gaze.

It was then that I fully realized the depth of my love for Mackenzie Sterling. I cursed myself for being afraid to admit my emotions, and I cursed my father for making me so slow in accepting her love for me and mine for her.

It seemed like an eternity before Watson arrived at my side, stopping my self chastising. He immediately tore at her jester's costume in attempt to see how badly she was wounded. Watson studied the injury for several agonizing moments before I saw him gently shake his head.

"Watson," I croaked. "Is there anything you can do for her?"

He looked up at me and his green eyes filled with tears. When I saw the hopelessness on his features, an anger that I could not find a rational reason for began to well up inside me. I allowed my rage to spew forth and I verbally attacked Watson, not knowing what else to do.

"Don't just sit there! For Christ's sake Watson, you are a doctor! Do something. Or could it be that your medical skills are mediocre? Is it possible that you do not possess the intellect to help her? Are you nothing more than a vapid cripple and a charlatan?"

Even as I spoke them, I knew the words were unworthy of me, but there was nothing I could do. I just allowed my verbal assault to continue, allowing the anger I felt at myself to be taken out on Watson.

He winced at my words but continued to stare into my face. When I stopped my tirade for breath, he spoke my name gently yet forcefully. "Holmes, listen to me. There is nothing I can do; there is nothing the best surgeon in the world can do. The bullet is lodged in her right lung. She is dying Holmes and there is no way to save her."

My heart protested this diagnosis and I shook my head like a stubborn child. "If you are not willing to admit your own medical inabilities then do not chide me Watson! You have never been one for practical jokes and I do not appreciate your pawky humor now!"

"Holmes you must listen to me. Try to understand, there is no way to save her. "

The gravity with which he spoke those words put a crack in the wall that I used to hide my emotions. Tears instantly surged from my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks, streaking Mackenzie's blood stained face.

"No you cannot die! You cannot!"

Her eyelids suddenly fluttered and my heart soared with hope. Could she be all right after all? Was it possible for Watson's diagnosis to be incorrect? Never being a religious man, I found myself praying that she would be alive and well. However, when her eyes slowly opened, they were clouded over by pain.

"Huh-Holmes…" she attempted to wheeze out my name but did not have sufficient strength to do so.

"I'm here," I whispered softly. "I am right here," I took her hand and squeezed it gently. "You're going to be all right."

"Ih-it…too luh-late," she rasped.

"No, no it's not too late! You are going to be fine," I said quickly. "Your wounds are only superficial." My optimism sounded forced but I did not know what else to say. I was suddenly at a loss. The logic that I prided myself on having, the very logic that helped me in so many situations suddenly failed me. There was no chain of reasoning I could follow to save her, or to ease her pain. Without logic and reason I was vulnerable and frightened.

"Mackenzie, you just have to hang on for a bit longer. Then we'll be out of this dungeon and we'll get you medical help."

"Cold…" she muttered. "Make…cold…go…away…"

I obliged and held her tighter in my arms. I cradled her head to my breast and did my best to stop her shivering. "Remember what I was trying to ask you so many times this evening? I was going to ask you for your hand in marriage Mackenzie. We'll return to London together and get married. We'll live in Baker Street and I'll train you in the art of deduction. Together we can solve those trifling problems that arrive at my door." I saw tears in her eyes and a ghost of a smile on her face. Feeling slightly heartened, I continued to paint vivid pictures of what our life would be like when we got back to England. I cannot be sure if I was painting these empty pictures for my own comfort or for hers. "We'll do all that and more, once you become my wife. All you have to do is continue to fight and continue to live. Just hang on for a little while longer and then everything I said will become reality."

My mind was telling me that death was a natural occurrence. I had seen it enough times to realize that. Humans, I knew, rarely lived beyond the age of five and seventy but even then I could find no solace in cold hard fact. Mackenzie was only seventeen!

For the first time in my life, I was able to really see myself as others saw me. I was a cold and unfeeling man, who looked at life as nothing more then a series of puzzles. Even when the woman I loved was dying in my arms, my mind was already looking at it as nothing more than a passing moment, irrelevant to the rest of the world. This view and my cold detached personality frightened me.

Mackenzie began to cough and several spatters of blood flicked onto my shirt. I looked down at her and was chagrined to notice that the pupils of her eyes were no longer the same size or color. Her skin took on a pasty white color and her lips were a light shade of purple.

Suddenly, she grew limp in my arms and panic engulfed me. The words I'd been so afraid to speak came rushing out of my mouth like waves crashing on a wide empty shore. "Mackenzie, you must listen to me. You can't die! You can't die because I love you and I don't know what I would do without you. You've opened my heart, showed me that it is possible for me to love; you helped me cope with the demons of my own past. I need you to be with me now and forever! Mackenzie, I want you to be my wife! I need you by my side! Please don't leave me!" For emphasis, I grabbed the small gold ring I wore on my pinky, the very ring that I had purchased days earlier to serve as an engagement ring, and pushed it onto one of her cold fingers. "Please I love you, don't leave me."

Her eyes saw the ring and then once again she stared into my face. A phantom smile played along her lips, lighting up her face with a glow reminiscent of the one I was use to seeing. "I luh-luh-love you too Huh-Holmes auh-and will…always…luh-love you…"

Suddenly, with her last amount of strength, she raised her head and kissed my lips, filling my mouth with the coppery taste of her blood. Then, her head lolled back onto my arm and her breathing stopped.

**Watson**

The only time I felt such pain was when I stood at the edge of Reichenbach Falls, thinking Holmes was dead. The grief I felt over Mackenzie's death was immeasurable, for she was almost like a daughter to me. However, as I knelt next to my friend and saw him so distraught, I pushed my own grief aside. A cold lump was in the pit of my stomach. I did not know what to do to assuage his anguish.

"No, she can't be dead! She can't be!" Several tears ran down his face. He turned to me, his eyes filled with grief and anger. "Is there nothing you can do? You are a doctor!"

I had seen death many times and recognized someone in her cold unfeeling grasp almost instantly. Still, as an act of closure for my dearest friend, I placed my fingers on one of Mackenzie's cold unmoving wrists and tried to make out any signs of a heartbeat. There was none.

Red-rimmed grey eyes stared at me with such unguarded hope that I suddenly felt cold and sick. I felt like I had failed my closest friend because I could not tell him the miracle he so desperately wished to hear. I opened my mouth to break the news but my vocal chords were constricted by a lump in my throat, making sound impossible. All I could do was shake my head.

Sherlock Holmes glared at me and pushed me squarely in the chest. "You're nothing more then a charlatan Watson! You, who pose as an all-knowing doctor, cannot save someone when they are in need! Why did I ever put up with you? You do not care about me; you cannot even save the woman I love, not even when I beg you! You…" Suddenly, he choked on his rage and all strength seemed to disappear from his body. He collapsed on the ground, head buried in his hands, sobbing violently.

As I watched sobs wrack his slender frame, his painful words echoed in my mind. There was nothing anyone could have done to save her. I felt tears well in my eyes and I quickly brushed them away. Did I truly fail him? He was right, and I knew it. I always wanted to shield him from pain and now, when he needed shielding the most, I was unable to give it to him.

I looked down at his trembling frame once more and fervently wished that my heart was torn from my chest, that I was feeling the agony instead of him. I would do anything to spare him from unnecessary pain, surely he must know that. Surely he must know that if it was in my power to save Mackenzie, I would have. He must know that I care…

I pushed those thoughts from my mind. Now, my friend needed me and I was going to be there for him whether or not he wanted me. I was going to help him through this difficult time.

I reached beside me and placed a hand on his trembling shoulder. His tear-stained face looked into mine and he once again began to sob. I pulled him close to me, allowing him to weep into my shoulder.

While most of his words were made unintelligible by the fabric of my coat, I distinctly heard him say my name. "Watson…"

"It's all right Holmes," I muttered, rubbing his back soothingly.

"Watson I am so sorry…I never meant anything I said…I am so sorry…"

"Shsh, it's all forgotten Holmes, it's all forgotten," I said, using my physician's tone which had helped me in the past calm frightened patients. I continued to whisper words of comfort into his ear.

I was well aware how empty my words sounded, for I could not empathize with him. The woman I loved was safe in our home in Kensington anxiously awaiting my return. My inability to understand his grief showed in my feeble attempts to ease his pain. I stopped speaking when I realized my words were mocking rather then consoling him.

I held him for awhile longer, saying nothing, just allowing him to cry out all his tears. When he seemed as though he was once again master of some of his emotions, he pushed away from me, never once meeting my eyes. Without glancing at anyone in the room, Holmes took his bloodstained jacket and used it to cover Mackenzie's lifeless body.

His eyes lingered on the crimson fabric for several seconds, as though for the first time, registering what lie beneath it. Although I could not see his full face, I saw him run his hand across his eyes, undoubtedly to stop the tears from flowing once more. When he was once again master of his sadness, he looked up and fixed the viscount with a venomous stare that made the young man step back in terror.

"You are a murderer de Chagny!" Holmes bellowed. His voice was still filled with raw emotion. He stood and drew himself to his full height, which was a little over six feet. His height combined with the deep-seated hatred and despair on his face and the shadows in the room made him quite an imposing figure. Rapidly, he closed the space between himself and the viscount.

In an instant, he had the sniveling man pinned to the wall with one of his strong hands around the younger man's throat. "It would give me great pleasure to kill you right now de Chagny."

"No, please don't!" Raoul begged. His face was contorted in terror. "I never meant to kill her. It was an accident, I swear, Monsieur. You must believe me; the lethal shot was supposed to be for that monster, not for her."

"You are the only monster I see in this room," the detective snarled. "You took an innocent life tonight de Chagny! You gun was aimed at me, hence Mackenzie's intervention!" As he spoke, Holmes increased the pressure on the viscount's neck. "Your apologies, your admittance of your stupidity will not bring her back! Have you ever experienced heart-wrenching pain, Monsieur? Have you ever experienced any type of pain at all?" For emphasis, Holmes squeezed the viscount's neck so hard that the little man let out a squeal of pain.

Realizing that my friend was overcome with emotion and was not in full control of his faculties, I rushed forward and pushed him away from de Chagny. When Holmes faced me, I was forced to steel myself against the daggers in his grey eyes.

"What the devil are you doing Watson? That man deserves to die!"

"Holmes," I said his name sharply. "Holmes, listen to me. Killing him will do no good. It will not ease your pain nor will it bring Mackenzie back. Nothing can bring her back Holmes, nothing can."

I winced at the harshness of my words and the effect they had on my friend. All color drained from his face and he glanced at me shamefully. "You are right Watson," he said listlessly. "You are right; I do not know what I was thinking."

"Doctor," it was the voice of Raoul de Chagny. "How can I thank you? You most probably saved my life. Your friend was attempting to kill me."

"I should have let him," I answered coldly. "You will continue to live your life in happiness while he suffers from your folly. However, I knew eliminating you would not change what has been done, nor would it help him. So do not think it was any feeling of concern for your well-being that made me stop his hands."

At my words, the viscount paled and backed away from me. I had the almost irresistible urge to throttle him. In effort to suppress that feeling, I tore my eyes from him and focused on Holmes who was kneeling over the body of his beloved.

"I have loved you all along Mackenzie Sterling. I loved you the first day I met you, although I did not realize it then. Although we were not married, you will always be my wife. It pains me to have to say goodbye, but I hope you are in a better place, free from pain and sadness. Lord knows I made you feel enough of both during our acquaintance. One day Mackenzie Sterling, we will be together once again and that day will be the happiest day of my life. Goodbye my love," he gently pealed back the fabric of his coat and kissed her cold forehead before covering her once again.

When he stood, he looked directly at the three main players in the tragedy that we watched unfold. "There was no need for bloodshed. There was no need for rash actions. However I cannot change what is in the past, no matter how much I would like to. I was hired by le Comte de Chagny to see what caused his brother so much distress and by the management to solve the problem of the opera ghost.

'The two seemingly different threads intertwined and led me here, standing before you. It seems I have solved both problems, so my work is done. However," he quickly glanced at the covered form on the ground. "She would have wanted to see this through to the end, so I am prepared to do so.

'Erik," he said addressing the magnificent figure clad in evening clothes, "you are to stand next to your pipe organ. You!" he glared at de Chagny, "are to stand next to him. Closer! Good!

'Now, Mademoiselle Daaé you must choose between them."

The diva took several steps towards my friend, stopping within mere inches from him. "Monsieur Holmes, you must understand that I cannot make the choice after what has happened. I have just lost one of my dearest friends…"

Holmes's jaw clenched tightly and he spoke to the young woman through slowly grinding teeth. "Do not speak to me of pain Miss for I am experiencing enough for both of us. Waste no more time and make your choice!"

Christine Daaé stared at the detective as though he had lost his wits. "Monsieur, you cannot be serious."

"I am gravely serious Mademoiselle. You have wronged both these men for too long. Now make your choice and make it quickly!"

I winced at Holmes's treatment of the young singer. I moved to place a comforting hand on her thin shoulder, but Holmes restrained me.

"Do not attempt to reassure her Watson! She brought herself to this and now she must pay the consequences." His grey eyes were two pieces of granite as he stared at the hesitant girl.

Nervously, Christine Daaé glanced from Erik to Raoul and then back again as if unsure of whom to choose. Then, almost tentatively, she took several steps toward the viscount. He anxiously threw his arms around her, but she did not return the embrace. She simply stood like stone, staring at the floor in front of her.

Erik gave a cry of anguish and Holmes cautiously approached him, not bothering to hide his disgust at the diva's choice. He walked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Gone was the proud, swaggering and occasionally conceited Sherlock Holmes. He was replaced by a humbled, despondent shadow of a man. I was shaken and chilled when I saw the change.

**Mac**

When my vision cleared I was lying in his arms. Tears were rushing down his face. I felt strangely disconnected from my own body. I was vaguely aware of a rasping/gurgling sound, and it took me a moment before I realized that the sound was coming from my own lungs.

"Holmes," I tried to whisper his name but I could manage to get it out in one breath.

"I'm here," he said in a trembling voice. Why does he seem so frightened? "I'm right here." He took my hand and squeezed it gently. "You're going to be all right."

He told me my wounds were superficial but I knew better. Shadows were pulling at the corners of my eyes and I knew I was not long for this world.

"It's too late Holmes," I managed to squeak out the words.

"No, it's not," he whispered. "You just have to hang on for a bit longer and we'll get you medical help."

There was so much I wanted to tell him, but I could not find sufficient strength to do so. I wanted to give him my soul but my wretched body would not let me speak.

Coldness began to descend and I shivered. "Make the cold go away. Please make it go away."

He cradled my head to his breast and I smelt the familiar scent of shag tobacco and sandalwood. The heat of his body did little to warm me. The shadows were steadily growing denser. It was an effort to see his handsome face clearly and I grew frightened. In truth, I was scared to die. I didn't want to leave Holmes and I was scared of what awaited me on the other side.

Holmes suddenly blurted out that he had wanted to ask for my hand in marriage. My heart soared at this proposal and I wanted nothing more then to tell him that I would gladly be his wife. However, all I could do was smile. He began painting pictures of our married life in London, in effort to calm me.

My heart was heavy because I knew I would never become his wife or see his London. I knew he realized that his face and the dank dark room would be the last things I would ever see. The thought brought tears to my eyes.

Blackness grew heavier and I began to cough. Blood spattered on Holmes's shirt and I noticed tears in his eyes. Strength seemed to have left my body. I could no longer move my arms and I was tired. For a moment, shadows completely engulfed me. Holmes must have thought I was gone because he began to call my name in a voice filled with panic.

I fought the waves of blackness. "I'm here Holmes, I'm still here."

He began to profess his love for me and my slowing heart was filled with joy. I knew I was going to die, but at least I would die with the knowledge that Holmes loved me as deeply as I loved him.

I felt him place something hard and cool on my finger. I forced my eyes to focus and I saw a ring on my finger. I did not doubt it was an engagement ring. I wanted to tell Sherlock Holmes that I would live with him forever, but I was only able to tell him that I loved him and would love him forever. I didn't want to die; I did not want to leave Holmes but the thickening shadows informed me that my time on earth was running out.

The shadows were impenetrable and bright light shone in front of me. I saw a hand beckoning me forward.

I didn't want to leave. I couldn't leave without telling Holmes goodbye. With a great deal of effort, I raised my head and kissed his lips, finishing what we started the day before. I did not want to leave Holmes but the hand was so alluring, so soft and so white. The palm opened and I saw people, their faces filled with joy. Standing in the middle of everyone, was Holmes with me in his embrace. There was a smile on his face and I wondered if I took the hand, would Holmes and I be together?

As if to answer my unspoken question, the figure of Holmes waved to me and motioned for me to go with him. Not knowing what else to do, I grasped the hand to follow the man I love.

I had the strangest sensation that I was floating. I looked around and to my astonishment, I saw Holmes cradling me in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Holmes was not happy; instead his body seemed torn with grief. Watson was kneeling next to him, attempting to give him consolation.

"Holmes! Holmes don't cry! For God's sake don't cry! I am all right, I'm alive! Holmes, why aren't you listening to me? Can't you see I'm all right?"

"He cannot hear you!" A deep booming voice filled my brain.

"Why is he crying?" I heard the words but I did not feel my lips move.

The booming voice filled my head once again. "He believes you are dead," it said nonchalantly. "And to him you are."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your time here is finished Mackenzie Sterling. You taught Sherlock Holmes that he could love another; you helped ease the demons of his past. That was what you were sent here to do and you did it. I am going to give you another chance at life, but it is going to be in the time where you belong."

"No!" I heard myself scream the single word. "No! I don't belong anywhere, save in his arms. I am in love with him! I'd rather die then have him grieve!"

"He is resilient and will heal."

"What about the hand? I saw him, I saw us together?"

"That was the only way I could bring you back!"

"Holmes!" I cried his name once more before everything went black.

There is not too much more of the tragic tale to tell. When I awoke, I was lying on the floor of Madame Sophie's caravan. Becky was lying beside me and looked as confused as I felt. Memories assaulted me, and I called out Holmes's name, but Madame Sophie managed to subdue me. I remember she called an ambulance because she thought that I had sustained a terrible blow to the head when I fell. For a moment, I honestly believed I did, until I clasped my hands together in agitation and felt the engagement ring from Holmes on my finger. I allow my hand to travel to my throat and I felt the chain with the cameo.

It was then I realized that what had happened to me was reality, not a delusion caused by a blow to the head. I was rushed to the hospital and then kept there overnight for observation. Doctors were treating me for a severe concussion as well as shock. I heard the doctor's low murmurings and he was telling my parents that something had happened to me, something had affected my brain causing me to have delusions. He also said it might be good if I met with a clinical therapist.

Thankfully, my parents told the doctor to simply treat my concussion and not worry about any delusions. They believed once the medics treated my concussion, the hallucinations would disappear. My parents arranged for me to have a private room, where I was free from prying eyes.

At about eight o'clock in the evening, when I no longer had the strength or energy to cry, the nurse came into my room to see if I needed anything. After a few moments of begging, I convinced her to put the TV on for me. I hoped idle television would somewhat take my mind of my broken heart. However, when the nurse turned on the television, I cried when I saw the BBC replaying episodes of the Granada Television series, 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.'

The nurse grew extremely nervous at the effect the program had on me but I stopped her as she reached for the remote.

"Nurse," I said before she could change the channel. "Leave this on, please."

"Yes, but-"

"No buts, please! Just, leave this on and leave me alone," I said with asperity.

With a shrug of her shoulders the nurse nodded and exited the room. When I heard Jeremy Brett's voice, a new wave of tears spilled down my cheeks and I cried myself to sleep remembering the time I spent in the Victorian Era and my love for the world's first and only consulting detective and "the best and wisest man I have ever known." (Doyle, 240)


	51. Epilogue

**Hey all! This is the last chapter in "De Temps En Temps." Hopefully you'll find this ending more to your liking than the previous one. I like to consider it a bittersweet one. But that's all I'm saying. I do hope you've enjoyed this story and please do let me know what you think. R&R please! Thank you again and I will be writing newer pieces in the future. Mysterylover17**

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**Epilogue**

Rebecca

I closed the notebook when I had finished reading the account she so desperately wanted to hear. I knew she would not want to hear the depressing shit she had written down about Kyle and AIDS. It was after I closed the notebook that I looked over at my best friend. The first thing I noticed, besides the absence of most of her hair and the purple lesions that have taken over her skin, was the look of absolute peace that was on her face; her eyelids were closed and her cracked lips were set into a contented smile. I grinned in spite of the sad account I had just read, in spite of the memories that Mac's damn journal evoked. It was good to see her so peaceful, so content, almost happy.

It was a few more moments before my mind registered the loud, panicked beeping of one of the machines that she was hooked to. Once I comprehended that sound, I noticed that her chest no longer rose and fell in attempt to get ragged breaths into her lungs. I knew before the medical staff arrived that Mackenzie Sterling, my best friend and 'sister' had finally succumbed to the virus that had been attacking her body. I knew, before Doctor Mott said a word to me that she had died.

I was numb for several minutes, her notebook was clutched in my hands. Doctor Mott muttered some words that did not register in my brain and touched my shoulder ever so gently. My world had dissolved into a blur behind my tear filled eyes. But I did not allow those tears to fall. There would be time for that; there would be time for my own grieving. But there was something I still needed to do.

I rose on slightly unsteady legs and stumbled to the closet where I had shoved what Mac called her rucksack two weeks before. With trembling hands I searched the bag, my fingers brushing against bottles of pills that would no longer be opened, against her AZT beeper which I would no longer need to constantly set and reset. My fingers brushed against various pens and pencils that she had thrown in her sack, brushed against her wallet that contained credit cards that would no longer be used, money that would never be spent, phone numbers that would never be called, appointment cards with dates that would never be kept and photographs that would no longer be looked at. Each item my fingers brushed against caused my heart to break but I forced myself to continue my frantic search.

Finally, my fingers brushed against a cold metal chain. With shaking hands I removed the chain from the recesses of the rucksack and held it up to the light. It was a simple gold chain two pendants upon it. One was an elaborate cameo and the other was a simple gold band. The cameo was the first gift Holmes had ever given her; the ring was her engagement ring from Sherlock Holmes. With tearing eyes and legs that threatened to give out with every step I took, I staggered to Mackenzie's quickly cooling body and, with shaking hands; I somehow managed to clasp the chain around her neck. She'd want to be buried with that chain on. She had never removed it save when I had to when she was admitted to the

hospital and the doctors wanted to run tests. I had forgotten to put it back around her neck.

Quickly, I kissed my sister's forehead and ran a gentle hand over her lesion covered cheek. "I love you," I whispered, my voice harsh with sobs. "But I hope you're happy now, happy with him."

Without another word, I grabbed her notebook, threw her clothes into her rucksack which I then shouldered, and stumbled out of the hospital. I had prepared myself to brave the pelting rain which had fallen steadily on the seething metropolis for the past week. However, I was surprised when I stepped out of the double doors and was bathed in sunlight.

I smiled, thinking the sunlight was Mackenzie and Holmes smiling down at me. It was then that I allowed the tears to flow. After a few moments of crying, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands and walked towards our loft, thinking about the phone calls and arrangements I would have to make. As I walked, I heard the faint clip-clop of a horse's hooves, one of those horse drawn carriages that so attracted tourists. The sound made me smile. Mackenzie was with Holmes finally and she was happy. Her happiness meant everything would eventually be all right.

Her funeral was an intimate one, with only myself, a few of my friends, Stephen and Mac's family present. Ever since she had been separated from Holmes, she became a recluse, with only her memories and me for company. Her family had selected me to give the eulogy and I mentally went over my speech as the priest droned on about how Mackenzie's suffering was finally over and how she was basking in the warm glow of God's love. Fuck him! He doesn't know her, never did, and never would. He talked only of her suffering from disease. He didn't know for how long she suffered before then. How she longed to—

He then motioned for me to come to the front of the church, interrupting my thoughts. I rose, my legs and heart heavy, and plodded to the lectern. I cleared my throat into the microphone, getting everyone's attention. When I saw the pain in everyone's eyes, I decided against using the speech I had written out.

"Hey everyone. In case you don't know, I'm Becky Marshall. A few days before she died, Mac asked me to give her eulogy. I don't know why, I think it's just cause she knows I hate speakin' in public and she probably just wanted to get back at me for all the shit I put her through in over the ten years I was privileged to know her and call her my best friend and sister," her mother chuckled though tears at my candid observation. "I had this long drawn out speech prepared, painting pictures of Mac's life in rainbows and puppy dogs. But fuck that!" A gasp was heard in the church at my use of language but I didn't care. I had to speak from the heart. "Mac, throughout her life, went through a lotta shit. Her parents had a messy divorce when she was little, she was a total nerd and was constantly picked on in school, she was raped and got AIDS and she was separated from the one man who stole her heart. While I know this is a really sad time for everyone, including me cause, I mean I fuckin' loved that kid. But I can't bring myself to feel sad cause I know it would be for my own selfish reasons. Actually, I'm happy."

I paused when I heard the loud gasps of protest and mini cries of outrage. I smiled at those present and thought of how Mac would have smiled and laughed at the pandemonium I was causing. "Hang on guys. I'm not fuckin' happy she's dead. I fuckin' loved her like she was my sister. But, I'm happy cause I know Mac's at peace. And I don't simply mean that she no longer has to face her dreaded disease. I mean her suffering of a broken heart is finally gone. I'm happy because I know she has been reunited with her long lost love." I opened her notebook to a page that I had marked. "Allow me to read you a passage from Mac's notebook."

I cleared my throat and began to read. "'As much as I love my family and as much as I love Beck, I cannot suppress the desire to die. Life for me is empty. It has been empty for some time; it has been empty since he and I were separated. I would give anything, including my life, to be with Holmes once more. I know, deep within my heart, that when I do finally die, Holmes will be there, waiting for me at those Pearly Gates with Saint Peter. It'll be at that moment, when I am reunited with Sherlock Holmes, the man who has my heart and soul, that I'll be happy once again.'" I closed the notebook and looked at the faces of the people present. They all had looks of surprise.

"That entry," I continued doggedly, "was written before Mackenzie was raped and before she was diagnosed with AIDS. So perhaps now you can understand why I am happy she is no longer with us."

I spoke for a few more minutes longer, saying, what Mac would call the 'usual bullshit' about what a great friend she was and how much she'll be missed. Then we trudged to the graveyard where her casket was lowered into the ground. As I stood there, staring into the yawning abyss, I could have sworn that I felt Mackenzie's arms around me and heard her voice in my ear saying: "Thanks for understanding. I love you Beck; we love you."


End file.
